


The Soft Whispers of the Dead

by calliopes_pen



Category: Dracula (TV 1968)
Genre: Beware of broken glass, Blood, Don't Drink The Cognac, Don't forget the salt, Exorcisms, F/F, F/M, Fog, Friendship, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, Jonathan fights for his soul, M/M, Mina fights vampirism, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Possession, Post-Canon, Rats, Seward could use a life free of the supernatural, Vampires, When Ghosts Attack, gothic horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 05:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 100,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15942545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliopes_pen/pseuds/calliopes_pen
Summary: Dracula turned to ash with the rising of the sun. Despite this, his power and legacy loom large over those he once controlled. As temptations rise and haunt Jonathan and Mina, they struggle to keep their souls. As the shadows close in, will the soft whispers of the dead save them…or damn them forevermore?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisbluespirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/gifts).



> I began the process of writing this right after Yuletide 2016. However, many aspects of life went into upheaval for me. I wasn’t able to get back to this until now. Many rewrites later, the length went far beyond what I expected it to be. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, Lost Spook.
> 
> Everything that happens in the first chapter is set prior to Dracula (1968) as a prologue, beginning with Jonathan's encounter with the brides in the castle. Everything from chapter 2 on is post-film.

A single week within a castle could change a man’s world, and lay waste to his very soul.

In time, Jonathan would grow to understand exactly how much of a grievous miscalculation he had made when he blatantly disobeyed the Count’s explicit instructions and chose to wander the castle after sunset. As it was, there came a swift realisation that he was out of his depth even as he sprinted down the corridors. He desired to outpace those strange and sultry women.

The one who hopped in a slow and painstaking pursuit in that small band of three did have murder in her eyes. They all did, but that method of locomotion both intrigued and disturbed him. They knew the layout of this place better than he did; they knew any passageways there could have been to get ahead of him, and thereby had the upper hand.

He should scream for assistance, but doubted any would come to him. He had observed the lack of servants around to tend to daily requirements. He suspected he was on his own, excepting his pursuers.

As they moved to stand before him, fanged and clawed and vicious, he stared in wonder. Together, despite the slavering desire to do some manner of harm to his person, he felt a calmness begin to settle over him. He smiled. They had woven a spell over his soul, and he was feeling things he had scarcely felt for anyone before. The disgust and horror he had felt at the start of the chase melted away.

Under that curiously sudden fascination, he found they were becoming less three hideous incarnations of Medusa, and more the enthralling and wanton succubi of legend. They were women of loose morals that he suddenly found himself wanting to keep company with, whatever their intentions in seeking him out might be.

He felt like inviting them to his apartments for tea so that they might speak with him, if they even could. He knew more would be in store for him, but found himself desiring only of their touches.

If he could understand them, he could truly know the host of this great castle. It didn’t make any sense, and he didn’t care. He only smiled at them, and found himself struck dumb. It was all madness, and yet he was fully in their power, and waiting for that beckoning finger.

If Mina could be called to mind, and not blotted out, he would chastise himself for becoming a cad of the lowest calibre, scarcely befitting either the status of gentleman, or deserving of having her for a wife.

Even as Jonathan yearned for their kisses, he was torn from the tapestry of lust they were weaving in his mind by the arrival of the Count. Even then, he found himself unable to react. _His_ red eyes did more than steal Jonathan’s will. The power in them caused his mind to sink irrevocably into a dreamlike state, despite the women screeching and clawing at the air so close to him.

Distantly, he heard the Count’s words bouncing off the stone, even as they faded: ‘Back, I command you. He is mine.’ The final three echoed both inside and outside of his mind, and yet he felt no distress. He was merciful. He could be, yes. Jonathan would not be punished for straying from the path.

As the power dynamic shifted between what entity commanded his thoughts and therefore his actions, Jonathan swayed. The grin didn't leave his face, and he wasn't even aware of it. Then, when he felt directions form, he quietly moved to sit at the bottom of the staircase.

So soon was it after their success in making him covetous of their bodies and their ways that he hadn’t any resistance left for the man who might save and damn him in one fell swoop, if he was anything like his presumed brethren.

He could feel the Count’s nature was certainly devilish, as something red seared his mind. The Count’s power entered him, saw all that he was, and covered everything. There were no words that Jonathan could say; there was nothing he could keep private.

His lashes fluttered as he almost fell asleep where he was sitting, and he found himself a veritable ghost in his own mind, unable to do anything but watch what became of him, and allow another to go through his private thoughts.

He woozily looked around the corridor when it felt as though the Count’s attention was broken in half between him and the three. He noted the women were snarling, before they bolted. They ran lightly across the cobblestone, and made not a sound to mark their passing once they stopped their feral sounds. They disappeared not through a door, but a wall, trailing mist behind them in their wake.

In his unique state, he thought it looked like Mina’s long and beautiful wedding train before it evaporated. He could not hold the image of her on that day. He thought instead that that spectral mist looked like a newness of creation that should be revered.

He frowned at that thought, and sensed it came not from him. He also couldn’t think of why it should bother him. He heard his name being called, then, and realised that in this mental fog he could not answer without a command.

It stirred within his soul. He felt as though an invisible cord formed between himself and the Count. Whatever it was, there was a tugging sensation that grew painful until he obediently directed his attentions properly and politely towards his generous host. The Count had moved closer, he found. He was no longer atop the staircase, looking down on him.

He was at his side. Jonathan wished to bolt around the Count; he must barricade himself inside his apartments, and climb out the window! He must leave this wretched place. Even as the thought formed, the impulse died.

He felt an otherworldliness pierce his mind. Slowly a greater veil of mist fell across it than before. His fear was soothed; his pulse slowed. The haze of red pulsing within his mind made him feel as though he was where he must always be.

Jonathan vacantly stared into those red eyes, and knew that whatever words dropped forth next must be obeyed with all of his heart. This man had rescued him from certain death or worse. This man held his life in his hands. There must be a repayment, or he would be found to have gravely insulted the Count.

The longer their eyes were locked, the stranger he felt, and the more he desired to please him. The Count’s hand was stretched out towards him; no words were required, and Jonathan knew he must take it. A hesitance crept in, before it was annihilated. He sensed that touch would change his life. Jonathan took his hand, and knew what it was to be lifted up and onto his feet by the strength of centuries.

He slowly wondered just how he was so certain it was that duration of time.

The Count’s pointed smile held only secrets and lies, but the now enthralled Jonathan thought only gospel truth was behind those eyes. When the veil briefly lifted from his thoughts, the evil of the smile told of ancient sects and terrible power struggles; betrayal and torment. It told Jonathan that his life was shifting and changing course. It whispered of death, and the carnage of battles fought and blood spilled; it hinted of fountains of gore, yet to be splashed across the stones in the future.

Jonathan couldn’t move, or withdraw his hand. Quietly, he shivered, though it was not from fear, but from the fact he could feel a terrible chill. It was like the coldness of the grave sank into his skin, even as the soft whispers of the dead seduced him with their tales of debauchery.

He still couldn’t speak, but tilted his head and watched the Count’s face. He felt like he was following a vision wrapped in moonlight through a cavernous maze, within a dream that could never hope to find an ending. Would there be a minotaur at the heart of this maze, or would there be…life everlasting?

He had such strange thoughts, as his mind wandered from one thing to the next, and could not find an anchor. He felt like the drama within these walls was greater than the whole of humanity. He felt like Persephone being abducted by Hades, and brought to the Underworld.

He wasn't certain why. He was presumably not so trapped, for he hated pomegranates.

Everything puzzled him. The Count never once let him go, but only moved Jonathan’s limp hand to the vampire’s arm. Suddenly, there came the suggestion that it was proper to be in this manner. It was as though they were old school chums reuniting and gossiping about old pals when it came to the manner in which Jonathan suddenly found himself relating to him.

He tightened his hand on the man’s arm, and gestured quietly for him to lead him.

“We have a pact to make, Mr. Harker,” the Count grinned quietly. The information he divulged now could never be horrifying in the man’s current state. Whatever he suggested would be something that Jonathan would do. Such was the way of this power of mesmerism. “You will follow my every command tonight, and all the nights to come,” he instructed.

Jonathan found himself smiling in return; he was glad to know this. If he were himself in any measure, then he would be running for the door. He was grateful, even as his thoughts dispersed before they could fully form while he was in the grips of the trance. “I suppose we must do so, sir. I suppose that I will,” he distantly whispered. Then, he blinked quickly. “Have—have we finished the contracts for Glebe House, Count?”

Was that what bothered him?

He just couldn’t remember. His concerns melted away at the Count’s fond chuckle. “Yes, Jonathan. You have finished all that you intended to do here.” The two of them walked side by side; somehow, Jonathan found that he knew the locations of all the loose stones and cobwebs that he must avoid. He was sure-footed, despite his lack of care; he was fascinated by the history of the building, though he was not told of it with words.

He felt as though he was sleepwalking, drifting through a melancholy dream as he slowly took in the halls. It felt as though he was a resident of this place longer than the Count.

He could feel the Count feeding him directives and knowledge, and sighed as though it were so commonplace as to be dull. The Count’s love for the beauty of this land became his. The Count’s goals became enmeshed with his. His need to escape the confines and gather a new hunting ground also became his, although the sensation of that troubled him.

Oh, must Jonathan go if he had fulfilled his purpose? He was suddenly seeing the dilapidated nature of it with the Count’s eyes, and understood. The beauty fell into disrepair; the wonder eroded into consternation. The candles looked too bright in the shadows, and Jonathan’s head began to throb from everything. He wanted to pull away; he couldn’t and knew not how to do so under his own power.

The Count would lead him to hell and he would go with a cheerful, vapid grin he thought as his mind began to twist and fret. An unnatural being would lead him to his damnation. The Count’s power grew, and this fear, too, faded away.

“The library,” Jonathan suddenly whispered as he saw the familiar door loom before them. He was so disoriented, that the path before him had swirled and the door had both grown and shrunk before his vision steadied again. He felt like Alice, just a bit, falling into a darker Wonderland. He both felt and saw the Count smirking.

‘ ** _All will change_**.’ Those three simple words were spoken both aloud, as well as whispered between his thoughts. There was a growling undertone beneath them.

It wasn’t gentle, though. It filtered into his mind with the force of a typhoon, and threatened to sweep him away in the tumult. Jonathan shivered, and waited for his life to change. His hand remained on the Count’s arm, just as he had been placed. He waited quietly for the door to open. “I don’t think I should,” Jonathan murmured.

If pressed, he wasn’t sure that he could say if he meant he should not eventually enter, or if there was something more. He was all in a sea of wonders.

Jonathan flinched and moaned as red eyes filled his mind and all that he was. His own hurt in response, and felt as though they were also being burned out to be replaced by the Count’s. Finally, it ceased; he felt like he could breathe again. In truth, it burned away the minimal resistance there was within him.

It would stay that way until the Count released him from this mental bondage. He couldn’t say how long that would be for, but beneath that soft pillow of tranquility, he desired to be away from this man.

It all seemed perfectly commonplace to him, as his fear was drained away. It all felt right. Even the Count opening the doors to the library without touching them felt reasonable. Jonathan waited dully, until the mental tug bid him to enter. He came to a halt on the rug at the centre of the room; he had never noticed the giant emblem of a dragon was woven through it until now.

The vampire gestured while Jonathan’s back was to him, yet still he knew he was supposed to go to the table where the paperwork had been signed but a day ago.

The Count’s hand touched his shoulder; the slightest pressure forced him to lose his footing and fall backwards, legs splaying, into the chair. Jonathan looked up at him and knew something must happen. Even through the accursed foggy-headedness that impaired him, there was a sense in the air, as though something very important was happening.

The Count began pouring cognac. He paused once, and locked eyes with him. Yes, Jonathan thought, as his resistance faded again. _That_ would right his mind. The idea was natural, even though it was not his own. Something else was added to the drink. Despite observing the act, Jonathan’s mind was unable to link the activity to the purpose behind it. He must taste it.

The Count glanced over from the act of slitting his palm with a nail. There was not a sign of horror in Jonathan’s eyes, for he was too far into his power to register anything but the Count’s will. He would see this as normal.

Jonathan would be a poor guest indeed, if he did not drink with his host. “Yes,” Jonathan murmured. “A drink before we part?” The act must certainly be a toast to speed the parting guest. He had read of such matters in one of his travelogues. It was a quaint custom that he should like to partake in.

The Count smiled thinly; it was nonsense, of course, but it enabled Jonathan to be temporarily fooled. It was amusing how easy it was to draw out the Englishman’s dutiful nature when faced with the social graces. “Yes,” Dracula lied as he finished allowing the blood to splash into the goblet. He lifted it in a mimed toast, swirling it to better spread it through the liquid, before he pressed it into Jonathan’s hands.

He locked eyes with him, speaking without words even as he tightened his hand on Jonathan's shoulder. There was enough force behind the touch to keep him pinned to the chair, if the Count’s power should slip from some mistake. This man would be his. **_‘You are ever so thirsty.’_**

“Yes,” Jonathan said with relief. “I’m so very thirsty,” he added as though seeing the cognac for the first time. **_‘Drink,’_** he heard resonate through his mind. Without a care, he obeyed and raised the goblet to his lips. As it went down his throat, with the first taste, he sensed that there was something very wrong.

It made him feel dizzy. His mind was swiftly overwhelmed; it was made to believe it was merely the taste of a strong communal wine, so it would not be repugnant. To him, it became sweet, and a delicious bouquet. "Splendid," he beamed.

It must certainly be an odd vintage to taste so, but it would be rude to put a halt to the proceedings.

Without further ado, he drank down every last drop, and sat back. It felt as though more was expected from him. He began to feel as though he must stay here forever; however, he also felt a greater surge of terror that broke through his fog, and the need to escape returned with a vengeance.

His stomach clenched from the odd warmth brought with the cognac. That was followed by a malignant, vile coldness, which spread throughout him, even as he stumbled to his feet. He leaned against the table, feeling as though he was losing his grasp on reality.

Jonathan gasped as twin sensations were being woven ever deeper in his head; there were his own thoughts, and there was something else. Separate ways of thinking were intensifying with a dreadful permanence, and were at war within him; they were twisting and something new was being made. It didn’t make sense to him. All Jonathan knew was that his true self was losing, whatever more it was that was occurring.

The empty cup was removed from his hands before he could drop it. The pressure on his shoulder was suddenly gone, and he could move to his feet. Not yet, though. He could feel the Count’s hand touch his back, and disturbed himself by leaning into the touch as it moved up to his shoulder and then to his throat.

“You must learn your place,” he informed Jonathan. Silently, distantly, Jonathan couldn’t help but agree, though it seemed nonsensical. He didn’t jerk away and ramble about propriety when his tie was loosened and his jacket removed. Jonathan cringed; he shuddered, and moved to the side, though he didn’t stand yet.

He didn’t think he could. He didn’t think he wanted to.

Jonathan felt too hot; coldness battled for supremacy; he was at the cusp of swooning, and it seemed as though he was being prepared for that. He saw the Count’s fingernail reopen a closing wound as he leaned closer to him. Jonathan had trouble focusing on the situation until his eyes met red ones; his vision blurred.

He smiled; he understood, and was frightened by the knowledge. And then, the terror was swept away, by another forced trance. First, it must be the goblet, and then straight from the source. The palm was pressed to his lips, and the words of before grew louder and more insistent within his mind. _Blood Is Life_.

Jonathan fervently shook his head when the palm was removed. He clutched his forehead, even as his body grew loose and sleepy. He began to lose feeling in his arms whenever he thought to scrub away the blood; he gave up on that action. He didn’t want to go to sleep, for he felt he would die. He finally managed to get up, propped against the table.

He rubbed his face, even as his vision became distorted and strange. When he turned, he was only able to stare into the Count’s eyes, rather than demand assistance.

What assistance could he expect from the devil that brought this down on him? He almost thought 'his Master.' The words throbbed with a pulse of their own.

The room swirled, and Jonathan stumbled against a chair. Terror rose, though it was becoming tempered with something far simpler. There was an amusing need to enjoy his company and twirl around his majesty.

Jonathan looked at the Count, and then at his own hands. What was to become of him? What was wrong with him? What was he _doing_ to him?

“A drug in…t-that? Am...am I to be poisoned?” The question was simple, but the words came out sounding hoarse. Slurred. Halting. It had taken too much effort to speak. Everything sounded so far away. Were the rumours true? Was he nosferatu, as the villagers had proclaimed? Was that how he was doing this to him?

The Count was impressed by the paltry attempt at vaulting his control and remaining awake, even if it was merely in the form of a question. “No,” he smiled. “Your mind is to be reborn. Your place in the hierarchy has shifted. You are no mere morsel to sup from. You will become more.”

He could see exactly when the true Jonathan was beyond understanding. His power covered the solicitor’s soul sufficiently. He stroked Jonathan’s brow, seeing as his eyes began to fill with adoration.

“Blood is life,” Jonathan found himself clearly declaring without warning. The words had been pounding inside his head, and begging for release. He had to say them. They filled him with a dark glee that could not be ignored, even as he fought to say different words. He felt so groggy.

The Count said nothing, but sent a wave of praise to him. _**‘Sleep now, and grow in power.’**_ Those orders were the last thing Jonathan would hear for a time; they were directed towards what was filling him up, and beginning to supplant his will.

Jonathan began to fall, only to be caught easily by the Count. While his lids were heavy, he noted a vicious smile on the Count’s face. Against his weakening will, Jonathan found himself wildly and triumphantly smiling in return, before he reeled in disorientation.

Before he fainted, it felt as though the most private and precious pieces of himself—his mind, memories, life, secrets, sense of self—were being plundered. It felt like someone else was sharing his body. No, that someone else would not share. He would become him.

He felt the Count’s hands touching him; repositioning him; carrying him; he couldn’t think or voice any discomfort, even as he fell away from reality again.

He couldn't cry out. He couldn't move his lips to speak. It frightened him that he was so helpless. There was a sensation as of something else gloating within him.

Then, he felt no more as blackness settled over him.  
\--

Gradually, consciousness returned, though for another few minutes he would not be truly awake. When he managed to come back to himself, it was tainted and twisted, but it was close to alertness, nonetheless. The light of a nearby candle broke through the darkness in the corner of his eyes, before he squeezed them tighter.

Jonathan’s head hurt, as though he had consumed copious quantities of some noxious concoction, before the thought changed. Had he had more than one glass? Although, the feeling was already beginning to pass, so it could not be that.

He stirred on the divan. He felt different, as though the world itself was new again. He licked his lips, tasting the iron taint remaining there, beneath the cognac taste. It was delicious, though perhaps it shouldn’t be.

Slowly, as though he had slept for a century, he struggled to open his eyes. What was wrong with him? Had the wine, that delicious aperitif, truly been drugged? He managed to focus.

Jonathan slowly turned his head on a decorative pillow, and found that he was lying not unlike a hapless maiden in a swoon upon the furniture. Even with his eyes shut, he knew the feel of it; he had fallen asleep upon it before, his first night here.

Without worry as to how it came to this, he also knew that he could feel exactly where the Count lurked out in the hallway. He could feel the stone beneath his fingers, and sense a feral amusement. He felt his anger, and sensed the women were close.

A command to sleep came, and somehow Jonathan knew that the three were being punished for some transgression. Had they sampled from a lowly peasant that was under his protection? Wishing he could at least sit up and walk about for a time, he was instead plunged into a cold emptiness.

Time passed. He sensed someone calling in his mind, and woke a second time. He didn’t hear him with his ears, but Jonathan knew he was in the room with him. His face moved in that direction. There were glowing red eyes so close to his own, but he felt no shock. He couldn’t pull free if he were to be touched, nor did he wish to anymore. His mind went blank, and he felt like he was floating.

If questioned, he doubted he could provide his own name at this juncture. He felt himself begin to bare his throat, until that face looked as though he would correct him for an error. He moved back to the way he was.

The Count smirked. “What am I to you?” he murmured in the living man’s ear.

_Master._

The word curled up in his thoughts as though he had always known whom this man would be to him. It didn’t feel like it came from him, and moments later he no longer cared as something tucked away that dreaded concern.

“Master,” Jonathan chuckled lowly, as he slid to the floor. The word fell from Jonathan’s lips, and he knew that even if he had not asked, it would have sprung forth unbidden; he knew it was the perfect title when the barest of smiles came to _his_ Master’s lips. A growing ecstasy was taking him over; slowly, his true self was being buried. Another rose fully into power.

Yes. That man was his Master. Jonathan felt drunk. At the same time, he felt more alive than he ever had before. He also felt confusion, for he meant to stretch out an arm and grab the man, but something was amiss.

He couldn’t move; it felt as though his arms were bound. An unseen presence was holding his arms in place and down. The pressure was not outward, however. “You’re inside me,” Jonathan realised in wonder.

Something curled through him, a passing shadow that he immediately recognised as his Master’s essence. It thrilled him when it should have frightened him.

“You can use my hands for your own.” He felt strange, and that invisible, but powerful grip tightened and began to hurt. He moaned as a finger touched his throat, but from within. It was an odd sensation when he could see those hands. His chin was forced up, as though it were grabbed.

The Count inclined his head to acknowledge that this was so, before the grip vanished. The implication was clear for the living man. He would govern his actions, near or far, as he so desired. With the Count’s blood in him, he could see or hear or speak or move through him, no matter where he was.

“Very good, Jonathan,” the Count decreed in a suave tone. “You understand your place in the castle, and my plans now, do you not?”

Jonathan moved his arms carefully. The worry was cast aside. He stretched his hand towards the Count’s leg. He could feel no doubt over this desperate need to be near him. “Yes,” Jonathan finally replied in a husky tone. He shouldn’t know, and yet he did. His voice quivered in his excitement. “I do…oh, I do!”

The Count stepped closer, before he yanked Jonathan up without the slightest hint of strain, and moved him back to the divan. Jonathan’s grin only grew, for he knew where his place in life was.

“I am yours, Master,” Jonathan smiled beatifically. His eyes glinted with a feverish excitement. “I will do all that you ask, and will not be found wanting.”

The words came so easily, as though his life had fallen into its proper order, and he had found his rightful place at long last. He should remove this previous identity, and follow this glorious creature.

Memories of his previous existence were distant; scattered; blurry as though he were drunk or ill, and they were of no consequence. He could feel very little in relation to them. They were quickly concealed from him, but this, too, did not worry him. Jonathan only tried to move closer to his Master, desperate for that elusive touch. He stopped short of touching his lips.

The Count was amused at the very idea, but would humour the desperation this once. “One kiss and no more, Mr. Harker.” Or so the new owner of that body would continue to be called. “We must…see to other matters,” the Count noted. It would deepen the control, though. He had so many ways to make Jonathan forget the fleeting images of a paltry life that would otherwise rise to the surface.

Jonathan closed his eyes as icy cold lips met his own. His body tingled; it was frigid.

That should make it feel wretched, but it stirred his senses into a frenzy he scarcely could conceive the scope of; he never wanted it to end. He felt so alive; his old self was lost, and terrified, and would henceforth be ignored. He felt bereft as the moment passed, and the other pulled away. The touch wouldn’t linger.

While Jonathan reeled, he was still vulnerable within; the last memories of the solicitor’s existence were quickly walled away behind a fortress by the Count’s power. It would stay within the alcove reserved for the man's true self.

He found those memories of Mina; he quickly removed them from the servant's attention.

Jonathan opened his eyes again, breathing heavily. He found he was half ready to sleep once more. He blinked quickly, trying to recall what he had meant to do before he found his true nature. He knew there were further duties. Weren’t there letters he was meant to post to someone, to fulfill some labourious task? No, they no longer mattered. He must worship the one before him with wild abandon.

Carefully, he moved from the divan, fully expecting the sensation of being forcibly drawn back. He knew what must be done. He must prove himself. In one quick motion, uncaring if it left bruises on his knees from how quickly skin met stone, he knelt. “How may I best please you, Master? How may I serve you? What are my instructions to be?”

If he had none, he felt he would go mad. He knew of his plans, but not his Master’s immediate desires. It was as impossible to deny his devotion, as it would be to stop the sun rising in the morning, or the tide ebbing.

The Count was pleased by this demonstration, but there was more to do. “At last, you know your purpose,” he mockingly praised.

“Yes,” he blankly replied. Jonathan felt as though it was sincere. Before he could prostrate himself upon the ground entirely or grovel in submission, the Count stepped around him in a half circle, observing him as though he were a pet. He clutched his shoulder.

Jonathan’s eyes followed his every move. His expression was akin to one believing they had met a god that had hung the moon in the sky.

The Count held out his hand. As though it was the greatest of boons, Jonathan stretched out one shaking hand to clasp it. He was roughly pulled to his feet, and then closer still.

Jonathan might have stumbled, but he was only aware of the Count’s red eyes. Then came a steadying hand on his back, before that, too, was gone. Six words began looping through Jonathan’s mind, where only the first three had been heard before his collapse and rebirth.

If he did not say them, he knew he would be unworthy. If he did not say them, he would die. If he did not say them, it would hurt. They must be the truest of all, he felt. ‘Blood is life. I must serve.’

They were his gospel.

“Blood is life. I must _always_ serve _you_ ,” Jonathan managed to whisper aloud, in an awed tone. Had he found a true meaning for life? He repeated the words, so beautiful, so melodic that he could scarcely manage to keep from laughing. To him, it felt as though it was the secret of the universe laid bare in his soul. More filtered in, slowly at first, and then like a tidal wave.

He listened intently to the voices in his head, wide-eyed. They fanned the flames of his damnation. They soothed him with a balm that relieved all confusion.

Jonathan nodded slowly. “The night is ours. The day belongs to foolish jesters and the unworthy, yes?” Something he could only describe as a vibrant dark glory filled him. It was the strangest sensation he had ever had.

It was _wonderful_. He wanted to speak of his Master to anyone that would listen. He did not care that others could very well deem him mad.

“Yes,” The Count smiled, humouring him. In a way, the comparison was apt. It was evident the mania had set in for the mortal.

There was still more to do to complete the living man’s ensnarement, but there was time. Traps must be placed in the man’s mind, so that the true self could not free itself. He would remain his enthralled one, even when out of his company.

With every fibre of his being, Jonathan knew that he would never be cast aside. There was still a flutter of his true self, always easily hidden beneath waves of control. That man within felt he must record the moment of his enslavement in his journal so someone would know what became of him, before the thought was changed.

His new self was intrigued by the idea, but he saw the Count begin to shake his head and deny him that outlet. ‘No. You must burn it.’

Yes. That was the way.

“I will burn it. None will ever know of you, Master,” Jonathan said with a small, entranced smile. “Not from his pen; not from _my_ pen.” The Count stroked his cheek. Jonathan sighed, content as he reached up to touch those cold hands with his merely pitifully warm and human ones.

He desired to be so cold.

“You did suggest you wanted to please me,” the Count reminded him. The journal was the one facet of Jonathan’s old life that the Count could touch within the castle. He caught the barest of hesitation, before there came an eager nod.

It could unlock his softer self if it were read, or at least allow him to resume some minor form of control when he was not present. That was the concern. It could be used to undo what had been accomplished. Jonathan would destroy those foolish notes of the past.

The Count passed a hand over his face, showing him that he wanted this action completed at once, lest he be punished. He would have total control over his actions. Quickly, he forced his servant’s mind to submit. He forced Jonathan to hurry to his apartments. Through him, he knew its location.

After his servant had happily done as instructed, the Count would see about fanning the flames. He would test him.

Would Jonathan choose cooked food, or something alive? His machinations told him which it would be, but he should like to witness it firsthand.

Within that choice, he would observe how gleefully the mortal man crawled into the shadows.  
\--

Jonathan jolted back to himself as he was released from what amounted to a possession, and looked around in confusion. He shivered as the Count’s coldness retreated inside him, and likened it to that earlier feeling of being bound from within. It was like a straitjacket, and he disliked the sensation.

The man was his Master, though, and he must love it. He found himself standing before the fireplace, clutching his journal. He shook his head, feeling like he was awakening from an abnormally long slumber.

He had no memory of walking towards the table, or even of returning to these apartments, but knew there must have been a command. He had said nobody would hear about his Master from his pen, but that weaker one had struggled.

It still did, though not so much. The whimpering twisting whispers of the lost man were easily ignored. He adored his Master for giving him these lessons.

Jonathan looked upon everything in the room with new eyes. This was to be his home; later, tomorrow, he would explore. His Master had his plans, and they would move forward due to Jonathan’s assistance; but for now, until he was taken across the ocean, this was home.

He stroked a finger across one blank page in the back, and understood that he was not to read the contents. He was certain there was someone that might want the pages someday, contrary to his orders. Wasn’t there a certain woman who might fear that he had died if she heard nothing from him? Jonathan’s attempt at recollection was soon suppressed by the desperate aching need for his Master’s touch.

Whoever it was, he couldn’t even imagine her face, and no longer cared. He looked up from staring blankly at the cover, and knew his orders. They would not need repeating. He would obey. All must become ash.

Jonathan’s eyes lit with a rapturous and decadent obsession as he fell to his knees before the magnificent fireplace. He began to tear out one page at a time with wild abandon; his hands were shaking from the excitement swelling in him. He cast them all into the fire and pushed in anything that looked even close to falling out with a poker.

Jonathan smiled with joy at a job well done as the last paper began to blacken and curl, gradually becoming ash. He took the fireplace poker and shifted the results to be assured that all was as it should be.

The fire danced on like a living thing, reflected in his eyes. Not a scrap was left behind.

Jonathan felt hands touch his shoulders. Without looking, he tilted his head to the side. He hoped he might bite him, and was disappointed for a second time tonight when he did not.

The Count offered his arm when he turned; Jonathan stumbled to his feet, feeling enraptured as they drew closer. He felt honoured to be allowed this simple touch. Never once looking away from his new Master's face, Jonathan was led back to the area of his apartments where he took his meals.

“I feel so strangely. It is as though I owe you all that I was, and all that I shall ever be. I would gladly relinquish myself further,” Jonathan murmured. It was due to the Count’s presence inside him, he guessed. Or it was due to his Master having created him in this body.

He sounded as though he were on the brink of falling asleep; exhilaration made him feel languorous. His forehead leaned against the Count's arm as he sighed.

His eyes shot open at the sound of claws scratching at the wooden door. He swiftly turned to see, but his view was blocked. His body tensed, prepared to leap upon whatever it was.

The Count drew him back with one hand on his chest, and silently pointed towards the table he hadn’t paid attention to before. Jonathan caught a familiar aroma, and turned back to the vampire. The scent should have been pleasant, but it made his stomach churn. The eyes that locked upon his were bewitching. Jonathan’s were quizzical.

“You must be hungry, Jonathan. You have a choice in this, for you have proven your subservience to me,” the Count supplied with false concern. “Tell me your selection, Jonathan, and we shall see to your future.”

“I will want for nothing,” Jonathan breathed. The certainty was not his own.

He could see a rat clearly as he slowly sank down onto the floor and looked beneath the loose fabric of the sofa. He thought he knew where the rat had moved to, but his curiosity for the table’s contents got the better of him. He rose again to see.

Upon the table there was displayed roasted pheasant, red wine, and small potatoes sprinkled with paprika. It was the old Jonathan’s favourite; it had been served his first night in the castle. While the Count had offered to make it a nightly feast, he had declined, lest he impose on his host more than he likely already had by his mere presence.

The noise came again, and Jonathan smiled. It was sharp to his ears. It could easily be followed. There it was, he mused. It was hiding from the superior predator. He tilted his head, slowly licking his lips as he thought of how it would taste. It would hide from his teeth, would it not? A frantic squeak betrayed its whereabouts as it moved from beneath the sofa to under the cushioned chair by the table.

Jonathan crawled on his stomach like an animal, so that he may see. He didn’t crave that _human_ meal. He didn’t need forks and knives. Food; the thought of something _dead_ being consumed was repugnant. He wanted the forbidden. There was no blood in what sat upon the table. The heart did not pump its essence through dead tissue. He was no carrion bird; he was no vulture feasting on a rotting carcass!

“It’s a rat,” Jonathan said with an unholy glee. “It’s bigger than the one he saw on the staircase.” Some simpler man within him was disturbed by all of this, but he was being drowned out by his newfound need. He would know himself, and embrace this joy.

The Count motioned silently to the dish. Jonathan made a sound of disgust and pulled away. “ _Human_ food? I will not speak of it!”

The Count looked in askance at the vehemence of his reaction. “What sort of dish _do_ you desire, then?” he asked, a mixture of amusement and smugness colouring his words. He knew his blood held sway over him. He would hear his needs from his own mouth, from the new creature he had placed within that once so polite body. He would hear him _beg_ for _blood_.

“I…want _souls_. I want _lives_ …small ones, not big ones, Master,” Jonathan whispered with passion in his voice. He heard the skittering of claws, and grinned. “I want flies; spiders; the rat. I want fur and bones and _blood_ , for blood is life.”

He began to lunge towards the sound, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Jonathan sent the Count a look that radiated sadness at being denied. It bordered on petulance.

The Count held up a hand to bid him to be silent. Without speaking, he could predict the outrage; the annoyance; the petty squabbling over such a meal. He soothed him with a touch on his neck.

No, Jonathan wanted to continue. It must be alive when he attacked, and it must know Jonathan was delivering it unto death in the name of his Master; no matter if it hopped or crawled; no matter if it were a small fly or spider or the largest mice and rats the castle would provide, or even, perhaps, an owl.

He felt his Master’s touch, and for now should not fret about how much or how little he would receive. He basked in the glory of his destiny. His choice was already known; his desires would be spoken, and become a covenant.

Jonathan gestured calmly, with faintly upturned lips. He felt proud. “That is my choice, Master. I’m certain you can understand my meaning.” His eyes slowly went back up to the Count’s. His cheeks were cupped in the man’s palms, and Jonathan slowly moved his hands to clasp them.

"Now that you've felt a shred of my hunger, you must never cease to embrace it." Dracula stated with pleasure. It was his way of welcoming him to the fold. Jonathan’s face lit up. “Your hunting grounds will never be in short supply within the castle’s walls.”

The Count would take his leave of his new slave. He had fallen admirably. He was so _malleable_. The Count paused and listened at the door as there was a loud squeal, followed by a crunch. Yes, _his_ Jonathan was quick. The soul was buried deep inside and likely shrieked in amusing terror as the body saw to satisfying newfound hungers.

He entered the subtle cracks in the wall he had crafted himself within the man’s mind. Yes; he was correct, for he saw and felt the glorious terror of the mortal soul that had been locked away and thereby trapped behind it. He breathed it in, for it was splendid in its beauty. The Count left the spectacle once the man began pleading for mercy.

The rat had a hidden companion, judging by further noises. The rest of the castle’s brethren would be shown no mercy in the days to come. He had such plans for the young man, he mused, as he strode away. That one was his perfect hunter.

The three women should not stalk Jonathan again; after all, by extension he could serve them, too. He was just as much a predator as they were. And if, by chance, he were encouraged to procure for them something that squirmed and mewled as a living child might very well do from within a burlap sack, Jonathan would not say no.

He _could not_ say no, for Dracula ruled him.

When Jonathan entered the castle, he was looking forward to aiding a client and seeing to enabling a stable future with his newly wedded wife. When he left, it would be forever bound to a creature, as a servant of its evil; he would be lost to the ritually induced madness that accompanied it.

Jonathan Harker had become the Count’s most devoted disciple.  
\--

Several nights passed, before the Count checked on Jonathan’s progress. He had been last seen tracking a particularly large specimen of rodent. It had evaded a grisly death at the hands of his ladies when they were annoyed, though it had lost one leg in the process. 

It had, at last, been brought to ground near the scullery. The Count had a question to put to Jonathan, though he knew the answer well. He had been in the man’s mind as he had twisted it.

The Count smiled pleasantly, pleased by the bloodshed. “Can you feel the one you so despise at this hour, dear Jonathan?” He wished to hear it from his lips, and learn of _his_ interpretation. He wished to know what he was doing to the true man with his wickedness.

To know of the solicitor’s torments within was charming to him. 

Jonathan sneered at the thought, once certain the rat was of no further use. "He's weak. He cries in his prison, but I bay like a wolf until he retreats." His own smile was particularly wolfish as he thought back. "He'll only ever see through those bars, through these eyes, and get no further. Not ever again, thanks to your power, my Master."

Jonathan shrugged apathetically. "Otherwise, he is the mildest of pests; a shadow; a ghost, easily forgotten. I would eat him if I could." His Master’s might had made such play possible; his Master’s glory would make that old and duller self weaker still.

Once he had cleaned himself to his own liking, the Count led him away. They had business to see finished; he had a specific purpose in finding Jonathan. Arm in arm, they went further downstairs. Jonathan asked no questions, exactly as he had been trained.

The Count led Jonathan to a secluded corner of the underground vault, and peered into his eyes. Jonathan was desperate to serve him. He had not thought it would be otherwise. “We leave at dusk,” he informed him.

“Yes, Master,” Jonathan acknowledged. He watched his Master enter the coffin and smiled as he moved to prowl and hunt, before he decided he only had room for smaller lives after his feast. There would be no revulsion save from the old self; he would fantasise it was larger prey.

In this moment, with the command echoing through his soul, he didn’t even heed the reticence and curling fear that was always stirred by the women; he did not even care when the blonde snagged his sleeve and growled in his ear. He only smiled, feeling as though he could play with her if only his Master allowed him such indiscretions.

She hissed; Jonathan’s eyes barely drifted over her as she retreated to feast on someone else that had been caught and had little blood left to provide. He nibbled a few insects attracted to what was left of previous men.

When he was finished, only one thought reverberated through his mind. It was as though the Count recited the word in person. ‘Sleep.’ There was still blood on his fingers as he wiped them distantly on his shirt. The command burned through his own bloodstream, acting like a catalyst for a demonic lullaby. Jonathan sighed, satisfied as he reached the coffin and stroked the lid. He curled into a ball atop it; despite the hardness, it took him no time to fall fast asleep.

As he slept, he dreamed of little but his next meal; the castle walls; the touch of his Master. He dreamed of his Master’s brood conquering the whole of England, and smiled at the beautiful thought. It would only be ill tidings for the weaklings that chose not to take the path that led through the valley of death, and had rivers of blood to drink.

When his eyes snapped open it was night again, and he felt as though he was required to witness something; the hour was at hand for his Master to awaken, and so his eyes opened as well. He noticed little wisps of fog were rising out of the coffin’s grooves.

Jonathan didn’t move, feeling as though he was still more asleep than awake. To him, the sight of his Master in this state of being was beautiful. Slowly, Jonathan rose and slid over to sit upright on the edge of the coffin; he watched it coalesce and form the man. He felt he was prepared. He heard orders being given to the women, and their snarls in answer.

A foreign language was spoken, which he didn’t entirely comprehend. If he must know, the Master would translate it in his mind. Suddenly, his Master was in his field of vision, and his sense of self fell away as their eyes met; Jonathan straightened. Dracula stroked his cheek, withholding true alertness so that the vampire could infiltrate his mind further.

Jonathan’s eyes widened as the Count pierced his mind, but he was pliant and still. In the recesses of his mind, he was hearing all that should occur if they were parted; it would be buried so that the influence may thrive successfully. 

The Count tapped Jonathan’s chin so he would focus on him once more. He had squeezed his eyes closed in discomfort, and it wasn’t allowed. “Do you know how to behave for anyone that is not favoured by me?” He asked softly.

Jonathan answered slowly and quietly for he was still mesmerised. He wouldn’t even hear himself saying the words; the true self slept fully. “Yes. I know, Master, and I will do as you instruct.”

Dracula was pleased, and shook the mortal once to wake him. He knew Jonathan would feel as though the fault was his own, and allowed him that belief. “No daydreaming, Jonathan. We depart in one hour,” he informed him. Jonathan started awake, blinking in confusion.

“I—I apologise, Master. It was a momentary lapse, and I will remain awake until you tell me otherwise,” Jonathan answered with a small shake of his head. He shouldn’t doze off. He didn’t want to be thought of as lesser than the beings he feasted on.

 ** _‘I will find you even in death,’_** Dracula promised mentally. This, too, would wait until the proper moment to burst into his consciousness. **_‘You belong to me, Jonathan Harker…body and soul, until your bones are dust!’_**

Jonathan began to smile, for he felt a sense of beatific joy in that as it passed through the outer region of his consciousness and then buried itself. He would never leave him. “I am yours, Master. Yes. Always yours, and never belonging to another. Always yours, until my bones are dust.”

The Count offered a palm to the man; with one sharp nail, the skin was pierced cleanly, and blood welled up in it. “I seek a renewal of our covenant,” he disclosed. It wasn’t what this truly was, of course. It would bind Jonathan even further to his will, if such were even possible. It would, perhaps, leave a seed of nosferatu within.

His red eyes locked with Jonathan’s once more. **_‘Drink! You have no will to do otherwise, before we depart. You will be stronger for the journey. You will have no care for another…save me.’_**

Jonathan was agreeable. Aloud, the Count spoke. “Repeat this vow, dear Jonathan: I will obey none but you, and offer my soul as sanctuary.” Should there ever be a disaster, this could prove important.

“None but you, Master…never another. My soul is your plaything, to do as you will. It is your sanctuary. I am yours. I have no fear through your benevolent guidance,” Jonathan said with joyful zealousness. He was certain that this path would lead to his rebirth. It would lead him to exquisite and ecstatic rewards and eternal life; his eagerness rose as the palm approached his mouth.

He felt induced to speak further before the taste. “I offer you all that I am for your splendour.” He drank from his Master as long as required, until he had the sense he would be punished for insolence should he continue. When he could think again, he found he was being steered out the door. His mind was sluggish, but satisfied.

He wouldn’t feel anything other than this stupor of contentment until a few days out at sea.  
\--

Jonathan stumbled over his own feet, exhausted, as he fell to the deck; finally, he shifted until he sat near the mast. He glanced up and saw the sails were still catching the great wind that blew through the area, though it was tattered here and there. And yet, his Master’s presence kept it from dispersing the fog, which hindered the view for the other mortals onboard.

It could be unnerving when one could not see very well without the brightest of lights.

It must be so, when one was not guided by a greater being. His hunter’s eyes perceived many things that others could not. Jonathan could find his own way most of the time, for something of his Master’s power told him where to step. Noon was a weak point for him, as the sleep of his Master grew so profound that it was difficult to sense him.

For now, though, he was in pursuit of a mouse. Or he had been. He could follow it only so far, before he realised it had met its end in the water below. There was a final squeak from that direction as it perished. He was but the tired hunter seeking the emaciated and now drowned prey.

He weakly smacked his palm against the wood in frustration, for that had been one of the better ones left. The hunger could have been sated for a few hours! He knew there were more mice, as he’d heard them from time to time. While there were a couple of rats left, they were pitiful looking specimens; still, beggars couldn’t be choosers when hunger consumed them.

Unless his senses were betraying him again, they knew to flee him. He was a familiar hunter, from his stalking of them; perhaps they knew his scent. He had best hurry and endeavour to scavenge what lives remained for him, before any others grew too disoriented and met the same fate.

He was just so tired. He was always hiding from those men that steered the vessel; he managed to take shelter behind the deckhouse once and evaded their sight. They’d ventured first casually down the hatchway into the hold, and then, when noises and his Master’s nearby dark and magnificent presence had scared them enough times they had gone timidly. Still, they came and searched for stowaways among the disordered cargo.

He was always on his guard and leaping into cramped places; or, should they be ignorant and blind enough, going up on deck agilely when they went down. Jonathan had crawled into his Master’s coffin once, and stayed there for four hours. Jonathan had pressed himself flat against his body, and through their union he could feel his Master’s dismay curl through his mind. 

Then, there came an understanding, and finally a leniency that he would allow him to stay as long as they searched. It was very cold while he was there, for the Count only radiated the chill of death.

The previous day was when it had been so. That night, they had climbed out of the coffin together. Jonathan smirked, despite his hunger. The men were disappearing one by one. He wouldn’t need to hide much longer if the _Demeter_ should become a ghost ship save for them. Now, leaning against part of some cloth that had fallen from the mast (a hole was forming, but he was no seaman) Jonathan felt himself growing drowsy.

He didn’t know how much time passed before a man was suddenly leaning over him, a lantern held right over his face.

Jonathan pulled away, crouching low with a hiss after he started in terror, his heart almost pounding from his chest. From the man’s reaction, the sound took him off guard. Jonathan used that to his advantage, and knocked over the lantern, breaking into a run as he moved. Shock kept him going.

A few hours later, he emerged from below. Jonathan believed perhaps the watch had been changed, and his pursuer would be on other duties. As he made his exit, he walked right into the man. Jonathan tried to back away, only to trip over a tool box. The loud banging of a hammer falling against something metallic, and the rattle of nails falling out of a jar almost left him in a panic.

The Russian grabbed him by the wrist to keep him from going flying, and to keep him in place. Jonathan expected him to throw him over the side, or drag him to the captain and steeled himself for a difficult fight; his teeth were bared, with the expectation he should be forced to bite him. He had no other weapons. Instead, the seaman shoved a piece of day old bread into Jonathan’s startled face.

Jonathan took it, baffled by the gesture even as he turned it over in his hands. He had expected a gun. It was for him? Why? Why was he being kind to him? What was his scheme? The part of him walled away tried to struggle loose; that part wanted to beg and plead for help no matter if there was a language barrier or not. It was the right hour to be able to feel before the sun sank beneath the horizon.

That part wanted to cry and speak of his gaoler. He wanted to beg him to take a weapon to the coffin. He could never say those words, for his tongue was bound; his mind was shuttered off from his old thoughts. Even as the impulse developed, it frayed at the edges and disappeared.

His old self was buried deeper still; the servant would have none of what the old self desired.

Jonathan shook his head with a snarl, disgusted by the gift. He pushed it back into the man’s hands harder than he meant to, and tried again. “No! There’s no blood in it. There’s no life to it!” He realised he was confiding and bargaining in some manner with a person that could betray him. Jonathan began shaking, even as the man let go.

He began to back away. “Little Englishman, yer name,” a thickly accented voice called before he got very far.

Jonathan knew he shouldn’t speak to the unworthy. He shouldn’t trust him. He shouldn’t tell him. Why _did_ that pesky old self want to trust him? Why did he want to tell him? Was he lonely? He shouldn’t be, for his Master stirred in his soul with each hour.

He looked around. He was, at last, out of range of the Russian, and felt pleased by the fact he had not answered him.

This was primarily because of the fact that he scarcely knew what the answer should be anymore, for he was more dignified hunter than stodgy fool. Jonathan shook his head, and fled to the safety and darkness of the hold. He would hide, and evade this one the rest of his time here.

Or he would try to.  
\--

His resolve lasted until the next evening.

Jonathan’s feet pounded down the wooden steps of the hatchway. Frantically, he paced this way and that, fearful of approaching noises from above before he realised he must hide. He had been foolish enough to stalk his food above to the deck once more. He was just so hungry. His timing was off, and he had been seen.

Again.

The same man as before had spied him in his increasingly ragged state. The post of lookout was a fitting calling for him, for he had located him even with the foul weather all around. His Master was still in his coffin; he mustn’t allow him to be taken from him. He must provide a distraction.

The sailor had seen how Jonathan’s threadbare clothes hung upon him on that previous occasion, and must have taken him for a beggar that had scampered aboard. That much had translated this latest time, before he fled. There had been an offer of bread before, and now there was muttered talk of earning his keep, before Jonathan managed to evade him.

Jonathan still feared that he would be thrown overboard, and nobody would be there to behold his Master’s glory when he paved the way for a new era.

He wouldn’t be alive to get his Master’s gift! He frowned at the thought, though relaxed as he felt the distant thrill through his soul as some part of him moved through it.

This contemplation was what made it easy for that stranger to find him where he hid behind an old door that had come loose and been stored against a wall, beside a row of crates. There was nowhere else he could run, so Jonathan only crouched down in the corner, half hidden by an extra plank of wood. He pulled an extra box closer.

Jonathan tensed when it was flung aside; he shook his head, knowing it wasn’t the proper time. Just a few more minutes, and his Master would awaken. He moaned, expecting to be forcibly dragged out of what he was making into a nest.

“I’m not supposed to be seen,” Jonathan managed. “I—I can’t be seen yet. The Master wouldn’t like to hear that I’ve been seen. Will you tell?” If he pitied him, he would use that and twist it against him.

To his surprise, just as above, food was shoved into his hands. It was day old bread; therefore, it must be what he had given him yesterday, as well. “It’s going to be getting moldy soon,” Jonathan chuckled darkly.

“No,” the man replied to the first question. His voice was gruff, and he looked to have spent many years at sea, and battered by the light of the sun. Jonathan could finally see him better down here, by the light of a lantern. This one wasn’t blinding him. He had to have picked up enough English in his wanderings to communicate with Jonathan, though his Russian accent remained thick.

Jonathan smiled, which was likely mistaken for addled thanks. He gave no thought to eating this bread himself, and put it down beside him. The man looked shocked as he shook his head at this second denial of food, and Jonathan realised there was more. He wasn’t going to be telling on him; there was cooked meat given to him in a bowl.

That would do perfectly as bait!

Jonathan broke out into a mad giggle, which made the man back up a few paces. Were introductions to be made? Just to show the sort of man _he_ was, Jonathan used the bits of cooked meat (evidently from a stew) to draw out a stubborn rat. It was one of those hungry ones that had managed to escape him at every turn.

It was not the last one left aboard the ship; he had seen a nest, and knew pups must be near, if they hadn’t gone overboard. Perhaps in his tired state he had mistaken them for mice and driven them to their inadvertent doom, he pondered.

Jonathan threw a wide grin to the sailor, before he turned away. The man was talking to him, but he ignored him. He had a greater purpose, and a hunger that was growing in scope until he feared he would tear out the man’s throat in fury if he didn’t eat this one. He leapt into the corner.

Once he caught it, he scarcely allowed it time to screech. He sighed, feeling a bit better as he stretched, and briefly savoured the ecstasy that came with his nature. The remains of its small form grew still. It was so bony that there was little life to it to start with.

He realised the man was still there, and watched the sailor with curiosity. The sailor watched him with a sick horror, and he didn’t know why. “You haven’t any rats left, should the babes have died,” Jonathan mournfully explained to him. “Nor very many people, I should think. The Master casts his glory upon this ship, while I’m napping.”

"Four're left," the man informed him. "Not countin' me." He watched as Jonathan stared into space, and wondered what he was thinking.

How many days and nights had they been at sea? Jonathan couldn’t say. His head ached when he tried to recall how long he was in his Master’s service. He didn’t feel it was his place to ask that question.

The man was backing away now, and Jonathan knew it was to raise the alarm. His hunger couldn’t be helped; he hugged himself once he dropped the body with what should be a rather sickening thump against the wood. To him, it was only nature; it was what a predator did. Jonathan was uncertain of what he should do next.

Then, the uncertainty bled away. All stress passed from his brow, as he gave a deep sigh of relief.

It was _his hour_. He felt it as his Master did, the dusk; through him, his Master was felt to awaken; his Master looked through his eyes and mind and found his location. Jonathan grinned wider, and was presented with a plan. He would not be denied.

Quickly, Jonathan moved back up the steps to draw him away from the precious coffin. His eyes darted around, but nobody was up there.

“Come and know what I hear nightly. Come and see. Come with me,” Jonathan cajoled, laughing all the while. What noise they made was certainly going to be muffled by the fog, which thickened ever further.

The sailor followed, just as curious about his movements as he was disturbed. When this was done, the Captain would be informed after all, he decided. He’d find a rope, and tie him down.

“If ya hear somethin’, yer delirious with hunger, boy,” he grumbled. “’M the only one up here, and everyone’s in their cabins fer the storm; best watch yer step or you’ll fall at the next wave, too, ya scrawny pipsqueak. Rats’ll make ya _worse_ , ya loon!”

Jonathan felt he was half right for the first, though any delirium in him was always easily swept aside by another mind when it entered him. His Master controlled the storms; his Master ruled the night. His Master wouldn’t let him fall.

“Rats’ll make it _better_ , you _fool_ ,” he mocked with a similar tone. He spun in a quick circle, loving the rain that finally managed to hit his face, and the lightning that tore through the sky. He shook his head, for his hair was already damp from the fog even before that. The sporadic rain was piercing it to soak him. His eyes changed as he listened to something only he could hear, and stumbled.

“There you are,” Jonathan whispered as the Count’s red eyes seemed to fill up his mind and body. He spread his arms.

“Are ya takin’ ‘nother turn?” the man asked abruptly, out of genuine concern. Of course he wasn’t _well_ , but was he worse? He half expected him to tip over the railing at any instant for being fool enough to refuse cooked food and leaving a bloody mess all over himself. “Ya ne’er said yer name. M’ name’s Olgaren.”

Jonathan was beyond his reach, though, and unable to reply in kind. He had felt his Master’s touch against him, and heard a strange rushing in his ears. He felt that coiling of unknowable energy fully inside him, and he knew he must want to speak. His eyes rolled down, and he perceived he would use his hands. He didn’t have choices in this matter, and was pushed aside.

It felt like going to sleep. The world fell away, and from afar he could feel words being said through his mouth, though he could not hear them. He could feel his limbs moving, but knew not what actions he was made to take. Everything was strange and dark beyond those glowing eyes taking up his space, but he wasn’t afraid.

Just as suddenly, he could see and hear again. He gasped as though coming up from the bottom of the sea.

Jonathan blinked quickly, regaining his equilibrium and taking stock of everything when he was shoved back into himself again. He was so much closer to the lookout now, clutching him by the collar. Jonathan knew he wasn’t strong enough for lifting a man up close like that, but another’s power was taking care of him. As it was, the man’s feet swiftly returned to the ground.

He didn’t care if he had done anything else, for his Master was wise. His Master was kind. Whatever he had done was destined to occur. If he needed him as a mouthpiece, it was so much the better. He was being watched with a mix of horror and despair, and was uncertain as to what was so frightening.

His Master had risen, and that was all he must know; Jonathan knew that he was approaching, even though he never heard footsteps; that sensation of his true awakening sent waves of glory through him. Jonathan's smile was tinted with maliciousness as he looked over the man. "Don't go," he hoarsely taunted Olgaren, almost laughing. “You can’t go. You have to meet the rapturous glory of a higher being.”

Since he couldn’t carry him or drag him, he merely clung to his coat to keep him in place. He wouldn’t be shaken loose, until the man suddenly shoved him roughly enough to jar him into tumbling against the railing. Jonathan glared and caught hold of the lines keeping the mast tied down; he used it to right himself. He returned to his previous position, and held him as best he could.

He didn't stop grinning, as his Master stirred his mania ever higher.

“Coveted be thy name,” Jonathan moaned passionately to the heavens in the aftermath of the sweetness of that touch. Why couldn’t _everyone_ know his glory? Why couldn’t this bear of a man become part of them, too? His Master’s plans sang through his veins, though, and so he knew the reason. The people upon this ship were unworthy of his love.

They only deserved his scorn.

The ship began to be tossed to and fro upon the waves worse than before, as a storm sprang into being and grew in fury. The fog swirled, making even the rest of the ship seem muffled and distant, as if claiming all except where Jonathan himself stood, and where his Master swept upward from the hold.

Jonathan leaned closer. “Any punishment meted out will be swift and just. Don’t fear. He might make you like me; he might give you a portion of his hunger.” It was meant to sound comforting; it was a lovely white lie. Why wasn’t the man soothed? Instead, he had backed against the support for the crow's nest, and watched him, wide-eyed.

Jonathan looked around as best he could. Were there red eyes in the depths of the fog? No, not yet. It was just an impression; it was just the afterimage left behind in his mind. It would be glorious when he manifested.

Jonathan looked around in fervid glee as a rush of wind whipped through his hair. He ducked his head down and used Olgaren to take the brunt of the forceful gust. “He’s coming! He’s coming! You will know his joy. He will take your last breath from you, and might even bring everlasting beauty and let you walk again.”

He doubted the last, but it was nice to imbue him with hope. Wasn’t it? The greatest of the fog revealed the shape of first a bat, and then a man as it trailed across the deck, before it then assumed the form of Count Dracula.

His Master was beside the sailor, then, sternly watching; Jonathan smiled sweetly through the gore, without concern for how he looked. The rain and sea spray had yet to wash off the blood of his last meal. It was a blessing to be covered in such in his presence. Jonathan respectfully moved to kneel, once he let go of the man’s clothing.

He would worship his Master, whatever the hour and situation.

Though his Master must certainly know the situation through him, Jonathan wanted to speak aloud. He wanted to do so for the benefit of this feeble man who knew not the true joy of undeath. Viciousness ruled him at night. “He took me for a foundling in need of mercy and kindness, I think, Master. He wanted me fed. He doesn’t know your hunger and mine.”

“For your kindness, you will not suffer so much as the rest of them,” the Count determined. Olgaren tried to move towards the railing, and the Count raised his brow. He shook his head before Jonathan could try to cling to him again, and instead touched the sailor’s torn sleeve.

Olgaren was unable to move, and the Count studied his face. He heard Jonathan’s excitable panting as he recovered from his exertions, but knew he did not need to look to know he had his hunter’s faith. There was only terror in this sailor’s eyes, he silently perceived. This was good. There was the knowledge that death was coming for his soul, and those of his shipmates.

The two of them seemed to share a further understanding, as the Count peered into his mind; the sailor’s hairy knuckles were clenched into a fist. However, he seemed to accept that if it came to a physical fight, he was outmatched and outclassed in this instance.

“Are ya the devil and he possessed?” Olgaren quietly wondered. He saw his death in those eyes, even as the rat-like fangs grew. He was half in a trance even as he watched. There were no screams; they were not allowed to escape from his throat should he try, for the Count willed it thus, even as the man shook his head and glared.

He knew what was to come. He had read his folklore. "Little _bratya_ , you're on your own at that," he muttered to Jonathan. He took no offense at the strange muffled laugh. If the white haired man were possessed by a demon, it only made sense. Perhaps his word could shake something loose and spare him, but he doubted it.

“Perhaps,” the Count smiled cordially. It was an amusing mistake when it came to the first, though the second held true. His powerful hand pulled Olgaren to him in a blur of motion before he could speak further. The man hadn’t time for more than a mewling cry and a watery gasp, as his hand covered his mouth, and his fangs entered his throat.

The vampire feasted and soon felt Olgaren’s heartbeat slow to a crawl; when it ceased altogether he stopped. He removed his mouth from the neck, and held the man upright a moment longer. He studied him. His eyes slowly went to where Jonathan was situated; he bid him to rise. 

Automatically, Jonathan moved to stand in deference to his instructions. As he rose, Jonathan stared at the Count as though horrified at the loss of a friend, before the expression morphed into a being enraptured with his deed.

Yes, he had tried to pull away the man’s affection and reach the solicitor within, all unknowing of what his actions were doing. The Count could see it, faint though it was. The barest crack had developed in the psyche’s wall that housed the true self. His attention returned to the body; truthfully, even if his heart hadn’t stopped, he was so drained that he might as well be a corpse. Casually, he snapped Olgaren’s neck with such a crack that he noticed it made Jonathan wince.

Jonathan started out of his half gleeful stupor at the sound. He half feared it would draw attention. Something of the old self began to feel even more from witnessing it.

They were close enough to reaching their destination. It didn’t matter if everyone died; Jonathan could sense when his Master had come to that very decision. It didn’t matter if there were no survivors, he insisted to himself. Dracula’s power could steer the vessel. The elements would bend to his will. His Master was mighty.

One extra precaution must be taken, lest they be discovered too soon; there were many ways to dispose of a body, but their situation had the perfect one. They would throw Olgaren overboard. The Count held back, and watched Jonathan’s efforts in amusement, to see how long it might take him to do that action alone.

For an infinitesimal moment in time, Jonathan held back from touching the body from the superstitious fear that Olgaren would revive and accuse him or attack him for his betrayal. He shook it off nervously.

Jonathan had great difficulty in first repositioning and then rolling the corpse, and finally stopped, panting for breath. It was the dead man’s mighty muscles, and that barrel chest that just managed to make the man an even greater weight than he would have expected. He knew that he was too exhausted and too shaky to finish this particular activity.

He felt outmatched, until he felt a steady hand touch his shoulder and squeeze. He smiled up at his Master, as he reached down and took half of the weight. With him contributing his strength to the action, it became easy. In one quick motion, they threw the body over the side.

Jonathan frowned down at the churning water, watching the man slowly sink into a watery grave; his own emotions were just as wildly conflicted as the sea. He leaned almost carelessly against the rail until he could no longer find him in the foam that had gathered from a sudden crash of waves. And when the fog grew thicker still thanks to his Master’s conjuration to conceal even that from him, he sighed.

If the sailor had ever said his name to him above or below deck, Jonathan had been too concerned with relieving his hunger and allowing his Master entrance into his body to hear it.

Now something of his old self wondered, before the servant shook that away. He began giggling at caring for such matters. Something of the normal man within him still fretted. He should have asked, shouldn’t he? A saner part of him might have, not so long ago; he also knew the man had spoken it when he was not in charge of his actions. He should have asked him to repeat it.

He felt that a better man would have begged him to spare the man’s life.

The Count watched him carefully for a long moment, and smirked at the guilt that tried to rise up in the man. His power would remove that again. He touched Jonathan’s temple, and banished such meandering thoughts from his consciousness. The growing cracks in the wall were sealed, and the true self lost behind a maze.

The servant sighed, and leaned against him. With that touch, everything was banished but for the peace of his evil. The Count put his hands to Jonathan’s cheeks, with a façade of concern. In reality, he was altering a fragment of this last hour for the man. He was planting something else in the place of it, for his own entertainment.

Then, he stepped away, wrapped in his cloak. His arms were hidden from Jonathan’s reach, and he mused at how enlightening it was to see that weary grief at the lack of it writ upon a man’s face. “Step back, lest you fall into the water, too, Jonathan.”

He could always find another servant if such occurred. The bones that littered the dungeon in his castle were ample testament of how easy it would be. He had simply put a lot of work into this one's corruption before their travel began.

“Yes, Master. I will not be so foolish as that,” Jonathan obediently replied. He was safe wherever his Master walked. His Master would never fall, and he would not let him fall into a watery abyss.

“Go down into the hold, and await my return,” Dracula sternly instructed him.

“Yes,” Jonathan sighed in adoration. “As you wish, Master.” He hurried back down the steps; he somehow knew that haste was required. He seated himself on a box near his Master’s coffin. He would not rest until his Master returned.

He wiped the spray of the sea from his face; he hadn’t realised it was there until it began dripping into his eyes. He stared down at his hand.

Or were they tears? He licked it, and did indeed taste salt. Both tears and the sea were salty, so which was it? He snarled in annoyance, before he shrugged and found he didn't care.

A part of him that was no longer listened to was shaken. The Count had bound most of the man, stored that which was left behind a blockade, but there was still something that remained. He still existed. Jonathan struggled, but found he no longer recalled the sailor’s face or voice. He knew a man was there. No more; no less. He knew a darker glory had cast a foolish morsel aside. Perhaps his own hand had ushered him to his doom.

For now, it was all too murky to know the true course of events, due to the tampering his mind had undergone. It was almost like attempting to scry the future by peering into a filthy mirror. He chuckled merrily, finding entertainment in the terror of the lesser one within as he became lost in the Count’s horror and hid in the heart of a cascading structure.

He jumped at a sudden cry, and moved back to hide behind the coffin. It startled him from his thoughts, and he tensed. He overcame the fear, knowing he wasn’t in danger; he was curious, and wished to see the glory. Soon enough, he learned the origin, after rising and peeking out of the hatchway. After doing so, he quietly returned to his previous place, and remained still.

He didn’t know how to react to what he had observed. It was far more gruesome a death than the other one.

Jonathan hid as others died. He covered his ears when he heard a second piercing scream and then another in the coming hours. Yet when his Master returned, sated and alone and no others could be heard aboard the ship, pacing to keep watch, Jonathan smiled. There was nothing to be heard up there, aside from the creak of an unmanned mast that left him nervous, and the waves splashing onto a deserted deck.

Something curled wickedly inside him, tucking away thoughts of horror. His Master was victorious among the weak.

There was no more distress when his Master was near. No more, until the fog parted. No more, until he disappeared into the shape of a bat with claims of seeing how close to shore they may be.

Down in the hold, as he waited for his Master’s return once again, Jonathan found and consumed several small insects that still remained. He speculated his Master’s glory had drawn them to him to keep him busy. It was all that was left to find.

He heard a loud crash, and then water was trickling into the hold. Jonathan thought to look around the hold for what he could throw over it to plug it, before he understood that could not work. The thunder was louder, as he rose to stand; he moved slowly towards the opening above the stairs. All he could see was the glare of lightning that slashed across the sky.

"Master?"

With a louder sound, he was thrown backwards into the wall as the world rolled.

When his Master abandoned him, he didn’t start screaming for him. Not all at once. No, he was obedient. He trusted him. He loved him. He knew he would return for him.

Not until the _Demeter_ crashed onto the rocky shore of Whitby, did he let out his fears.

Not until he was certain the ‘rescuers’ would not be delivered a swift death by his cries did he cry out. He felt piteous disdain for them, for they knew not the glory and gifts of his Master.

He was delivered unto Dr. Seward, and not his proper Master, and malingered miserably, deteriorating in his woe until the very instant that the familiar and darkly sweet presence flared to life inside him again.

His Master was always inside him, but the closer he was to his side, the more the ever-present ache was filled.

It was a wondrous thing to know his Master had returned to find him. It was even more beautiful to have his mouth used to form that Master’s words, even if it was to form taunts regarding his doctor’s fiancé.

It made him shiver in sadness and confusion when no other understood how blessed he was, and how much of a gift it was to bestow upon a soul.

Jonathan could be patient and calm only when he saw the vampire in the flesh. When he heard him in his mind, he became purely his diligent and ever obedient creature who listened to every syllable and delivered unto him his next chosen.

He knew to strike any within reach whenever night fell, for they were the Master’s foes.

They would never understand, for they were not among the chosen few. They were not hearing his Master’s whispered secrets. They were not at once his vessel and his mouthpiece.

He pitied them their ignorance.

Until, that was, the morning when the source of his changes was torn away.


	2. Chapter 2

Count Dracula was dead.

While the dust slowly blew away from a stray breeze, a small but insistent part of Mina wished he would come back. He could guide her, as he had when she had just seen Lucy. It almost desired to be as he was. Not dead, no; never that. As Mina Harker’s gaze slowly moved to stare at John Seward’s throat, she struggled to control her breathing.

John stepped further away, and she almost breathed a sigh of relief, even as she wanted to rail against the Fates and pull him back.

She was herself. She _was_. If she were a vampire, then she should have perished with the man himself as the sun rose. His curse should have evaporated with the dawn of a new day. She clasped the ring tighter, and pondered what she was. The jewel in its setting was cool against her skin. It was sharp, and could draw blood if she let it. She wondered what she should do. She was at a crossroads, and she knew it quite well.

The Count was dead, and in the wake of that all those held firmly in his grasp should have been returned to what they previously were in spirit. Jonathan should instantaneously revert from zoophagus madman to polite solicitor, with only a streak of white in his hair a memento of his transformation, and hazy memories.

Mina should be grateful for the rescue, demure, and proper now that the vampire was defeated. She found herself angry for reasons she did not wish to study just yet. Sometimes such magical things were not to be, Mina thought to herself.

This wasn’t a fairy tale with magical sprites causing the present to revert back to what it was in the past, without a mark to show what one had endured. Choices must be made; she didn’t know how she knew it, but she did.

Two paths stretched out before her, and likely before Jonathan as well. Neither could be simultaneously taken. She could not be trapped between light and dark; humanity and vampirism; life and death. Not for long, not for days and days on end, and come out with her sanity and health intact. There was more in the shadows than she had ever suspected.

Mina sought to conceal the ring in the folds of her gown; she pulled Seward’s coat tighter around herself. It would be too obvious if she tried to wear the signet, and then hid her hand behind her back like a child. She didn’t know what it was about it that called to her; she only knew that it was imperative that it stayed with her. She didn’t want Jonathan to suffer from the sight of this, his former master’s artifact. She couldn’t look at the impulse closer until she was alone.

Alone. Should she be left alone? Her thoughts turned to the man near her. Mina was desperate to take John to a secluded location. Perhaps she could take him to that copse of trees, away from the mausoleum’s shadow? _No!_ Her morals made her thoughts veer away from this grotesque avenue.

This wasn’t her. No matter how she missed Lucy, it couldn’t be Mina’s future. Could she repress it, and steady herself without begging these men for help? She rubbed her forehead with a shaking hand. Her brow was sweaty, she noted; however, the seared mark of the cross was gone. It no longer pained her.

There was a trace of unnatural anger. A mere scrap of it burned in her heart, and yearned to be a new creature. It may have been just a fragment, but such things could grow. She had only to say yes, and she somehow knew that with the fall of the night’s veil, with blood, she could have both that, and perhaps regain Lucy.

Such was the song of madness she feared, even as it began to take hold. Wouldn’t Jonathan like that, too? If she changed, and his old master was restored, would he not be filled with hope and joy? Mina forced a benevolent smile to her lips, preparing to speak of the sinful matters of her fluttering control. She would whisper into Jonathan’s ear, and draw him away. She felt as though she would waltz through the shadows, and almost understood how Jonathan could leap over headstones in such a manner without care.

She could take both Jonathan and the Count by the hand, and see to John and Abraham. When she did turn to look at Jonathan, though, the smile fell away. A startled breath came out as a sigh that would not be seen as remiss in a tired soul. Jonathan wasn’t eager for a gruesome reprisal, no. This was not his hour of vengeance. He was quiet. That wasn’t disgust at his lot; there was confusion swirling in his face.

No, it wasn’t confused grief; she saw it as the skittishness of a man who had seen hell, and desired to be led away.

There was not that dark joy which Lucy had spoken of, and which she had tasted a fraction of for a pitifully brief time. No, before her was something far worse. There was the agony of a soul in pain. This man was her best friend; her husband; he was many things to her, before his mysterious disappearance altered his very personality.

She remembered herself before he met her eyes; she stepped closer almost against her will. He was so lost; so still; so _sane_. He was in so much pain that she felt her heart clench in sympathy. There was something else there, too. She wasn’t seething in remembered pain at the burn of the cross; she was not plotting to harm another; she was _not_ scheming to resurrect the undead and bathe in John and Abraham’s blood.

And in that empathy, the rope frayed further, though the tether still held firm. It hadn’t slipped over and off her yet, but the knots had come loose. Mina could breathe. She could feel horror at what she had almost let herself become. That curse was slightly away from her now, if she could feel such for him. It still hung too close to her neck.

She touched Jonathan’s arm hesitantly, and then urgently as she sought to guide him, lest he fall into an unnoticed and freshly dug grave. Oh, those eyes when he at last turned to her his full attentions! They were so clear. Mina was stunned. Those eyes were almost as shy as the day they met, when he first summoned the nerve to speak to her.

Mina worried when he turned away. And then, he clutched his head and heaved a sigh as though some imagined vice had let go of his brain at last. Perhaps it had. Perhaps it only took longer when one was lost for so very long within a creature that deserved to be locked in an asylum. When would she feel that erasure?

She glanced backwards to the men, where they chatted; where they planned. Disgust rose, though she could not explain the source. Let the men have their secrets; she would cultivate her own. She must keep her own counsel. She realised this was advice given to her by the vampire himself after she had seen Lucy; she didn’t care right now. It delighted and disturbed her in equal measure.

“What do I _do_ , Mina?” Jonathan hoarsely whispered. It wasn’t a rhetorical question, for he was truly at a loss.

It felt like a fragile moment. She didn’t want to scare him. He was seeking guidance, and she had none to give. She was uncertain as to how to handle him; she felt just as lost. She didn’t know what to say to him to provide succor.

“Oh, Jonathan,” Mina quietly murmured in a choked voice. She held her hands in a gesture of prayer, of entreaty as she pondered the words to say to Jonathan, but it was the better way to hide the ring from him. She was disgusted at herself, even as she was worried for her husband. Was she truly so lost, despite her feelings? She desired solace, and still she clung fast to secrecy in its place!

And yet, still she wondered how Jonathan’s mind could cope with the strain. Was he going to be emboldened by the ties that were cut, or ruined? Would there be salvation for her, or would she lose herself and be damned? 

She could have wept for their souls if she had thought to do such. It was dismissed out of hand as the familiar dark emotions rose and hid. She had felt it after Lucy appeared, much as an apparition might have. She had believed her to be such at the time. She knew it wasn’t that; at the time, she didn’t know what she and the Count were and had been; Mina hadn't known what she herself may yet become in the end.

“Mina,” Jonathan breathed again as his voice broke. He was torn by guilt, shame, terror, and the remnants of what he had been forced to become. He was dazed by the scope of it.

Mina’s resolve to keep her emotions contained was strong before, but it fractured like glass against concrete the moment she heard Jonathan’s voice again. He needed her help; he required an ally in his darkest hour.

She wondered further how long this clarity would last, as he staggered sideways from her side, and leaned over the grave of Mr. Cannon. Having once concealed the Count, she could never look at it the same way again. She had once pitied its occupant; now, she feared seeking its refuge at some time in the future herself. She frowned; while she did not know his intent, she would give him the space he required.

As he reached the suicide’s grave, Jonathan stopped in his tracks. Did he seek closure? He wasn’t certain. He only followed where his current impulses led, such as they were. He was making restitution. He found himself giving a silent apology to the occupant for the intrusion and desecration by the man who had been Master to what had upended his life.

He rubbed his hand against the grave marker, but wouldn’t lie across it. It was rude and unnatural to behave in that manner. Instead, he knelt beside where the last shreds of cape had fluttered away as graveyard dirt. He was saying goodbye to the spirit of the man who had twisted him, too. He studied the fabric, and sighed.

“Jonathan?” Mina quietly urged. His behaviour was puzzling, before she was given his absolute attention. All eyes were on the two of them now, as Jonathan moved to his feet.

“What do you remember?” She asked that, instead of a thousand other things that passed through her mind. Did he remember what he had been forced to become? Did he still want her? She could see his love. What had the Count done to him? Was he in pain? What did he require? There was the sweetest concern for her in his eyes when he turned to her, which Mina hadn’t seen in so long.

“Everything,” he softly confessed, with all the gravity that those words implied. Even as he said it, he felt it was a lie. There was a large piece of his mind that felt as though it was barred and not his to recall. Something was hidden; something should be feared.

Mina sighed; it hurt to know he would be so tortured. She took his hand, hoping to give him comfort.

She found she couldn’t let go; neither of him, nor of the ring.  
\--

Jonathan felt as though he was awakening at long last from the delirium of a particularly virulent illness. His mind almost needed a chance to fully catch up with the actions of his body, now that the spell of the Count was relatively, if not totally, broken. At the instant of the vampire’s death, it had felt like his blood was boiling from the highest fever he could experience and come away with his sensibilities intact.

Jonathan pondered that as he steadied himself. _Had_ he been under a spell? Was anything the servant caused a piece of what he truly wanted? Of course it wasn’t, he easily dismissed. His body had been ruled by a servant’s devotion; his body had been controlled by another presence.

It boggled the mind to find that all this was real, and not a horrid dream.

Another had used his body. He had consumed live insects and, worse, set upon rats; he had revelled in such actions. He paled. “Live flies in my pudding,” Jonathan shakily murmured in dull horror, as a revolting taste struck him. It was said so softly as to be unintelligible to Mina, for which he was grateful. That dessert had been served to him in the castle as a treat the evening after his change, and Jonathan prayed there would be no further flashbacks of more revolting fare.

He could still feel that thing’s pleasure. And then he realised something more. It was not past tense, but present and growing. It was gaining amusement by his woe.

His worried eyes went to Mina as she patted his arm, once he returned to stand beside her. They had both been under spells to varying degrees. Were either of them to be trusted?

He wondered if she were the last link in the chain back to his sanity. Could she lead him further astray? Could she lead him back through the suffering of the night, and all its dark glory? Could she become as the Count had been, and would be again?

He stopped mid-step. Dark glory? Such melodrama was outside his vocabulary. Or, it had been, when he was a mere solicitor. It was not outside the other’s turns of phrase, however. There was something wrong with him. Other thoughts could be detected deep within, if he listened; slowly, insidiously, they sought to entwine themselves around his own.

Mina seemed to know those secret words; a strange smile lurked at the corner of her lips, though it was swiftly concealed. They locked eyes, and he felt a strange sensation well up within him.

He felt as though his claim on his soul had been restored to him, and that it was a tenuous one at best. It was still possible to lose the struggle to that other self, for something else moved within. There it was, scratching at his soul. There it was, coiling like a serpent and waiting to strike if he proved distracted. There it was, revelling in what he had done with Jonathan’s hands and face.

There it was, surging upward through his mind.

He shuddered, and suddenly realised he should not have given himself over to the desire to eulogise earlier, even internally. It allowed that diabolical other self to edge ever closer in influence. It wouldn’t have worked so well, save for a secondary aspect moving against him as well.

The Count had left instructions, and they would be fulfilled. The Count had left his words, sinister and mellifluous, and they would be heard. The Count had bequeathed unto Jonathan the manner of his resurrection, and it must be done. Jonathan shuddered, and hoped to force his mind away from that loop that threatened to crush him.

He couldn’t do this a second time. He couldn’t taste freedom, only to see it yanked away.

The charge into damnation was led by three horridly familiar words. **_‘Blood is life.’_** They were spoken in the castle; they were spoken in the cell. He had to give them voice again. If he did, all would be well and he need not fear horror when it was touching him like a lover. If he said them, he could follow that familiar path.

He wouldn’t do it, but he felt the one that had stolen his life taking over again. The other would say them for him, whether or not it was the true desire of Jonathan’s core self.

He _had_ to say them, whisper them, scream them, bellow them, or his head would never stop pounding. The rioting cacophony would never subside. His mind would become ashes as he went catatonic, for he knew he could not stand such things. He glanced at Mina, and thought he could. No, he _would_ fight for her sake.

He had gone for her throat before, because she diverted attentions the servant had sought. He would never hurt her again, would he? His eyes caught a glint; he spied the ring in her palm, and all his efforts to remain as he should be proved to be for nothing. The distraction became his undoing. He felt a glimmer of the Count’s undying hunger, and could almost see battles he had never been witness to in more than the Count’s sermons on the glory of the blood.

He felt that servant so close to an ultimate possession, and could not say a word of warning.

He wasn’t strong enough to fight it back. It was like he was being enthralled all over again; something said he should just relax. He could feel himself slipping into a trance-like state, which blended with a compulsion to follow wherever the Count led him, posthumously or not; into the gates of hell or not. 

_Don’t close your eyes_ , he thought to himself even as he failed. Keep them open, and maybe he could stay himself. He had only truly lost in the castle, when he had fallen unconscious.

Jonathan heard his name being called urgently called, and struggled to open his eyes. “Mina?” He asked in a daze; it was both her, and Seward, staring in concern. Even that simple name falling from his lips felt as though he wasn’t truly able to do as he wished, and cry out. He wasn’t sure what the warning was for, though, and the urgency fell away.

Everything felt so far away again. They were nothing. There were two sets of thoughts; he was himself and the servant at the same time, and the collision was excruciating. Everything involving his Master took prominence.

Mina gently touched his cheek in concern, and Jonathan smiled. She was not entirely a distraction; she was also something more. He saw his wife, but he also saw the last portion of his Master, for he had desired that she become one of the chosen few. Jonathan’s eyes drifted to the ring she held cupped so delicately in her other hand, as though it was a fragile butterfly.

Jonathan chuckled softly, for his Master was the strongest and not delicate.

Mina couldn’t know that despite her clasped hands, a glint of morning light reflected off the ring, and caught Jonathan’s gaze. She couldn’t know it would unlock ever more commands hidden deep within his mind. She couldn’t know, but she could see the results slowly come into fruition, and not understand until she followed his gaze. It flowed, and then it retreated, whatever it was. There was deviousness in his eyes.

His eyes went over her left hand; he noticed she still wore her wedding ring. She hadn’t removed it? She wasn’t shamed into doing so, while he was locked away? The shock of it almost brought his old self back to the surface. The emotions of grief and fear did war across his face, before a dreadful blankness descended over his features, and then greed and lust.

She swallowed her fear when she determined there was something very wrong. That laugh did not sound like his. “What is so amusing?” She asked, dread colouring her words. He murmured so quietly that she had to lean closer to catch the repeated phrase.

“Blood is life,” Jonathan enunciated slowly, but clearly, as though he wasn’t truly answering her. “He provided for this very night. He _was_ wise; he _is_ everlasting; he is _eternal_. The answers were left for me, and they are so brilliant as to almost blind me from the inside out,” he gushed. While he looked as though he could collapse in exhaustion, instead his movements were fluid. A stumble was a ploy to get her closer.

Mina instinctively reached an arm out to him to steady him, and then moved back. She grew worried he would lash out at someone in this mood.

“Jonathan, can you still hear us?” Seward asked cautiously. If the Count had planned for something like this, then what else had he done to Jonathan’s mind? “Do you hear him?” Was the poor man hearing a ghost, or possessed, or just dealing with something else?

“Yes, yes,” Jonathan said, distracted, as he glanced back at Mina. He struggled both to focus and explain. They were kindred spirits, and he malevolently cherished what he knew she could become. “I know what I must do. Blood will be shed, and he will be reborn. Coveted be the name of Dracula.”

Then, he frowned as though he couldn’t quite understand the meaning of his words, or why he was saying them, before the wrong force of will returned. A strain passed from his face. “Thy will be done, Master. In the silence of your shadows, the blood will draw you out. Your seed will take root.”

That wasn’t a threat, but a promise, Seward realised with worry. He exchanged a glance with Van Helsing, who had not spotted anything resembling this outcome in the books he had shown him. Neither man knew what Jonathan would do next.

There was a glint in his eyes; Mina didn’t like the look of it. Jonathan ambled closer, and grabbed Mina by the arms, before Seward could reach them. “You’re hurting me,” Mina cried as his grip tightened. It wasn’t intended; she could see that as she briefly reached her husband and not what was riding him. Then, he turned to desperately attempting to pry open her fingers.

She had the ring, and the Master would provide for them both once he had obtained it.

“Just let go, Mina,” Jonathan remarked with an eerie grin as he tightened his grip. She mustn’t squirm away from his grasp. “Remember that your loyalties are with him. Relinquish the ring,” he commanded. He refused to beg. “Can’t you feel the night coursing through your veins, and transforming you? Can’t you feel it, whether it’s the moonlight or sunlight upon your beauteous face?”

Mina found it easy to escape the brunt of the grip, for his actions were reticent and languid at times. The man within must certainly be fighting to keep from hurting her. This wasn’t really him, but she found herself responding to the words nonetheless. “Yes,” she suddenly replied.

“Yes!” At his pleasure, she shook her head. Her voice grew softer, laced with hurt and grief. “Not so deeply as you do, Jonathan.” She feared she might be lying. No, she knew that she was. “The difference is that I know the Count only brought you pain, despite your expected pleasure. He _still_ does. Of all the people still alive, I _understand that_ , Jonathan!” Better than he knew, she understood the call. 

“I would rather see you dead and free, than suffering and mad again and leashed another instant by the will of that _thing_. I would love to see you break free from him. I would love to see my husband looking out of his own eyes for a prolonged period so that we could speak to each other! _You_ cannot know how it feels, for _you_ do not _care_!”

Were her words a performance for the eyes of others? She didn’t know anymore. She only knew that she must be strong, if he couldn’t. Someone had to be sane, and break this cycle of anguish for however short a time.

She squeezed his forearms now, as carefully as she dared. She was almost loose. The others wouldn’t tear him away if she were imperiled by the attempt. “Fight him, Jonathan,” Mina implored. “Fight this nightmare. Fight for your soul. Just as the Professor said to me, I now say to you: your very soul is in danger, Jonathan.” There was a hint of him still in there.

Jonathan was dismayed by her reply. Beneath that, a flicker of his old self came through. He looked proud of her, before he slipped away again.

“Fight for me, if you have no other,” Mina begged softly.

Jonathan’s breath came in heaving gasps as though he was struggling with raw emotion. Mina feared he would faint before he could break through this horror. To her terror, his eyes became vicious as he spun her around. Before he could do more, he shoved her away from him, as the others darted forward. From the ground, Mina shook her head, for it wasn’t safe to approach him yet.

She saw that the ring had fallen from her hand, and rolled a short distance from them.

While she was hampered by her dress, Jonathan scooped up that which he sought. As he moved to flee with it, Jonathan was astounded to see that Van Helsing had moved forward. His path was blocked. There came a growl of frustration; Jonathan had his instructions flying through his mind, and he would not be detained!

Seward quickly turned to Mina. “Are you all right from that grip?” He softly inquired. He flicked his eyes between her, and the scene occurring before them not too far away. He wasn’t getting closer to the scene until he knew that she was well. He detected a brief moment of the Professor delaying Jonathan from his task. He had the situation well in hand, come what may.

“Yes, _go_!” Mina knew it was urgent, even as she regained her footing. There was clarity to her thoughts brought to light by that sudden shock of impact, which hadn’t been there before. While she was herself for now, she was scared what she may have done with the ring had she kept it. She understood Jonathan’s purpose in a way she should not, sinful as it was.

Jonathan was startled when he tried to evade Van Helsing, only for him to dart around another crypt and halt his progress multiple times. When he turned to take another route, he was shocked to find that Van Helsing always managed to catch up with him. He was filled with confusion. How did that man always get in his way? And how did he get so far ahead? Were there secret passages? Were his methods supernatural?

“His control slips?” Van Helsing calmly inquired as he watched his face. If he could frustrate the servant, perhaps the man before him would rise to the challenge and regain his body. He knew this was not the time for sudden movements, or he would be throttled. He would approach him like a wild animal, and take great care, in this game of cat and mouse.

Van Helsing's ploy was working, albeit briefly. The frustration drove that other one to distraction, but not for very long. Jonathan felt he had no choice but to answer truthfully. Even now, the voices grew louder in volume. The servant was pulled back, but it was only temporary. “Yes, Professor. Give…give Mina my regrets.” His voice was quiet; it trembled.

“If you can say so much, you can tell her yourself; you can fight his influence, Mr. Harker,” Van Helsing retorted. “You can cease being his agent!” He was becoming annoyed, for he could see the man was fighting a losing battle, and it chafed him to be so foiled by a creature from beyond the grave.

“Your name is Jonathan Harker,” Van Helsing reminded him. His eyes were stern; his voice was calm and enthralling, much as it had been in their sessions. “Hold on to that. Your wife is Mina, and you loved her before you were reduced to this. You were a solicitor and shall be again; it is not your place to be a servant.”

He saw the man’s hands were clenched in fists. This was either to fight him off, or an impulsive gesture to focus on the internal battle. “Listen to me, Jonathan. What do you want? What do you desire? What is _your_ wish? Is it to serve, or to be free? Your will is not the Count’s; your body is your own, should you fight; we all saw those so bright eyes, ready to shed tears in relief.”

He politely but firmly continued his inquiries when the other man hesitated to shove by him. Jonathan was so quiet, that it was unnerving. “Do you desire to grovel, or to be free, Jonathan?” Van Helsing continued. “Do you wish to be enslaved or break away and find a saner path?” He began to shout his words when the other man slowly crept forward to make use of an opening.

Jonathan clutched his temples, for his head was pounding. The shouting did not help him keep his sense of self. He answered the older man in a small voice, filled with pain and confusion. “To be free, but they won’t allow it.” The voices grew insistent inside his head. The instructions were loud. The words never ceased. 

One breath, two breaths, and suddenly something of the Count’s past words struck a nerve in Jonathan. The tide turned and Jonathan sank; it was fully the servant looking out of his eyes. There would be no more fighting with this man. He was his Master's obedient disciple. He would follow his instructions to the letter, no matter the cost. He tilted his head, knowing just where to go.

He knew he was wasting time standing with the Professor, and shook his head even as he began to speak again. Jonathan couldn’t just stop and spout inane prattle with a fool. He had to give himself over to the fires of rebirth and his Master’s darkness. One way or another, he would do the task. He would be the sacrifice if he must, or he would be the vessel; he would be the instrument of his Master’s return and bring him more blood if that was his lot.

He darted in a direction that he hoped Van Helsing wouldn't expect. His destination was one that man could not know. He used a leap over a headstone as a way to make progress, and was gleeful as Van Helsing fell behind.

Van Helsing urged him to think once again, shouting it at the man’s fleeing back. Even as he did that, he had an idea, and withdrew a vial from his pocket. He sought to splash holy water on him, only to miss. Jonathan was faster than expected when the voices in his head dominated his thoughts. “I almost got through to him,” he growled in frustration. Momentarily defeated, he walked back to where John and Mina waited.

He turned to the other man. “We have to stop him, John. Have you any suggestions for a hiding place?” He had his own suspicions of Jonathan’s movements. He knew a particular area of the cemetery well, but not the entirety of it.

Seward sighed. This was all happening so quickly. “As his doctor, let me go first. I have to try to reach him beneath all of that. There is a man under that pawn. Spy on us if you must when I find him, Professor, but I will brook no interruptions.”

Van Helsing nodded reluctantly. “Go, before he is lost. He rounded the corner, and my feet are not as swift.” Granted, with the blood transfusions, he did suspect that John wasn’t up for more than a brisk walk down a country road.

Seward had seen how Van Helsing had shaken Jonathan with his quick actions. He assumed that Jonathan would look for someplace private and free from interlopers in his current state of mind. That ruled out the asylum. It ruled out most places, for he hadn’t been very far beyond that. It came to him, then. He wouldn’t go to Glebe House.

No. He knew where Jonathan would seek to resurrect the Count. “The mausoleum; Lucy’s crypt,” Seward murmured to himself. He hurried away, praying that Lucy was not further desecrated. He hoped he would be in time.

As he reached the Weston mausoleum, he took in the door that was ajar. He grimly discovered that his supposition was correct, as his eyes moved over telltale fresh footprints in the mud.

He backtracked momentarily. Seward unwound his scarf from his throat and placed it gently on a newer headstone. He looked at the name, and trusted that Mr. Swales would forgive him for using his resting place as a coat rack for a short time. It was best to prevent any undue temptations with a man like Jonathan, when part of him was prone to beastly actions.

What would he find beyond those doors? He must wait, and determine what mood the man was in, rather than simply dramatically enter the area. There was danger. From the little that Mina had divulged before she was bitten, Jonathan had been a good man.

He hoped that remained the case.


	3. Chapter 3

Jonathan entered the unlocked crypt, and wandered to the centre of the marble floor. He felt that entrapped past self of his struggling and pushed it further down.

He could see the line of caskets belonging to the Weston family, but the majority of them were of no concern to him. The fact that the youngest in residence had fallen to his Master made this a particularly ironic place for his Master’s rebirth.

Let the dead behold the glory with him as an old creature returned to walk this world. Let his body become the vessel for that being, if the stars decreed it! Let the wretched foes that had cast his Master down live only so long as to regret their actions!

As he looked around him, though, he began to feel something of his old self; it was struggling to retain control, and might perish in the attempt if his current feelings continued as they were. He chortled at the thought. He had hoped the sublime bliss provided by his Master’s words would steady him, and pin him to the correct path, but was growing increasingly vexed by the discord within his aching head.

He frowned then, before he hummed in pleasure at so many fabulous ways he could use the dead. He tilted his head; he slowly stroked a finger down the lid of the coffin with a smile. That staked one was not the Master’s anymore. She had been a plaything to pass the time, before the Master could feed upon Mina. He was certain of this. He had his ideas on that matter.

Her name was Lucy, he dimly recalled. “You are no longer one of us,” he murmured with a dark chuckle. Then again, neither was he, as he was presently without a Master. Or was he? Was he watching him? Was he reaching out from the beyond, and putting his arms about him? He was still the servant; he would be so again. He was quite clear on that. His thoughts returned to the youngest of his Master's dead flock.

Would she taunt him with her cruelties? Would she mock him with the fact that she, at least, had felt his eternal bliss? After all, she had known his Master and been changed. And then, he winced, shivering as he briefly returned to himself, pulling free from that awful mindset. It wouldn’t last; he already ascertained that. The chill in here was bothering him. “Forgive me, Lucy, for what I am compelled to do. I know I shouldn’t disturb the truly dead.”

He quickly averted his gaze from the coffin as he felt a further coldness that didn’t seem natural. It was like the room was filled with ice. Were ghosts real, too? She had suffered a violent death. And yet, so had the Master's victims, and he had never seen any at the castle. “I’m sorry, Miss. I can’t help myself,” he unthinkingly added as he thought he saw someone standing in his peripheral vision. A woman beckoned to him.

A feminine whisper was almost there for his ears to catch, before his Master’s past words drowned it out with their vehemence and urgency. 

He turned, but that sight had faded. He already knew he was mad, so it must have been just more of the same, but with additional visions. He flinched as something cold touched his arm; it wasn’t his Master. His head jerked in the direction of the door, then, as he heard the sound of dry leaves crunching. _Them_. In time, someone was coming. He had best make haste, and come to a proper decision.

“You are not as I am,” he whispered urgently. It was an insult, he hoped. And…he was not as she had become. His thoughts could have drawn her here. Her presence could have consequences for the ritual if she were bothered. The plaything was a spirit? Should he care? He felt her begin to stroke his wild hair from his face as though to assuage him of his terror, and shivered. **_Ignore her_** , a voice whispered deep inside him. **_Continue your task._**

Yes, Jonathan realised. He would continue his task. **_Break the skin…break your skin, or kill the others. With their blood, you can continue the ritual. Or you can allow me to live again from within…you. Claim your inheritance, Jonathan._** It could work. The voice was sinister, but it sent a fog through his mind. He felt as though he would collapse with its intensity. When it cleared, he felt more at peace. It was beautiful, he thought. It was perfect.

His body would have a purpose in housing his magnificence. He jumped when he felt Lucy again; it broke his focus on his Master. It disturbed him, enough that his old self was almost in equal power. He began to think again; he began to wonder. “Why are you with me? Why aren’t you with Mina? I thought you yearned for her? We don’t know each other, do we?”

Why would she be with him? 

He thought he could see the motes of dust swirling into patterns, and then words forming upon the floor. The right man was losing his battle, and turned away. He ignored her presumed entreaties before they were finished, even when there was another desperate touch at his arm. He didn't care if he was the recipient of her words; his Master’s words were drowning her out.

Then, he frowned and touched his temple in pain. He began to shake his head. What was he saying?! Or, rather, what was he thinking? What was he doing?

As his sanity and true self struggled weakly, Jonathan spoke his confusion aloud. “Why am I in this ghastly tomb? Why here? This was just the hallmark of the Count’s first failure, wasn’t it?” 

He was speaking to a ghost! He was contemplating dark rituals to raise the dead! Therein was the continuation of his walk through madness. Partially his old self, he whispered into the darkness. “Are you pulling me out?” A breeze seemed to say yes. Would he never be free? He knew he couldn’t fight alone. He had the strange feeling, though, that he had an ally in this spirit.

Even as he fretted, the other resumed control. That horrid desire drew a curtain over his coherent thoughts once more, and Jonathan found himself nearing the coffin in preparation. He knew he must collect blood, though he was finding another idea. It didn’t matter if the source was fresh, did it? He would find a way, with the heart, even if it were pierced. Even if he had to quickly remove the wooden stake and bring her away from _her_ rest so she could aid him in collecting blood, he would fulfill his task. 

They were mad ideas. He shoved open the lid of the coffin; it wasn’t bolted down, for others had been there to do their grisly deed. There was no life in her, of course. There was the stake, and the hands held like claws, from the anguish of the deed. His eyes travelled down the once so lovely form.

He was foiled, however. “No,” Jonathan growled out. In his current state, he feared the objects his Master would have feared. Garlands of garlic decorated her body when he had a better look. He drew away, even though he thought that it might not hurt him. He would take no chances with that. Things might have changed; vulnerabilities could have transferred. He was no expert.

“The Master could use your remains to live again!” Jonathan cried out to the empty room. Still, he sensed she was very near. Was he speaking to the husk within that was staked, or the spirit? He didn’t know. He whirled, and would have flung the signet ring away, but the induced reverence for it was too well crafted for him to follow through on such an abuse. He revered the ring; it was his link to the Master, and so he stopped before he might do something foolish. He had little care for the dead, or that he was intruding on their dwelling. 

He kicked the coffin violently, and gave a short-lived shout of desperation, before he stopped. It wasn’t Lucy’s doing, of course, though the servant didn’t really care; he should blame Van Helsing for being wise. Perhaps if Jonathan were fully himself, and desired not to do this, the smell wouldn’t bother him quite so violently.

He sank back against the wall, as he heard more murmuring growing into a roar inside his head. His Master’s words were overpowering everything. They were providing further rapture; further comfort. Yes. This avenue was blocked, but there were other ways. Of course there were. He had just yearned to follow the easier way, perhaps influenced by her presence.

Jonathan listened carefully to every enchanting syllable and every damning fancy, which reverberated through his skull. He _had_ to bring him back. He had promised, and still the words pounded. He would have some inkling as to the proper words once blood spilled on the marble floor.

It must be fresh; it must spread out, spilling freely as the life fled the sacrificed soul. It must come from one that was both alive at the time, and closer to the Count than any others.

The sacrifice could be Mina, if he proved unworthy in the end. Couldn’t it? As Jonathan thought it, he struggled against the notion and denied it vehemently. No; never her his true self cried beneath it all. He wouldn’t see the blood spilling from her.

He could hear the words rising from a whisper to a demand; it was a phrase that he knew quite well, for he had said it many times. ‘Blood is life.’ Hold on to that, and the weaker of the two would be trapped again. It was heard so often, with no interval for rest or thought or denial, as Jonathan clutched his head, terrified it would explode.

He found himself crouched on the cold floor, as the inhuman whispers that so threatened to consume him at last subsided. There was a cold hand upon his shoulder. Jonathan snuffed an everlasting joy in its cradle as everything fell away. It had halted the whispers. It was a woman’s hand, come to stop him; it wasn’t Mina. What had been linked to his Master could still identify who it was without turning; it was Lucy, and yet not. “I’m sorry,” Jonathan whispered in awe.

There came the sensation of a soft thumb stroking along his cheek. It was icy, but there was no recrimination in the touch, only gentle understanding. She, too, had felt his Master’s touch; she had felt his pleasure; she would understand an inability to deny him. That forgiveness extended from his true self and all the way to the servant. He touched his cheek in wonder, but the cold spot was gone as he did. It almost broke through the orders cascading through his head.

When he moved again, his actions came as though from a dream. He moved to kneel in the centre of the room, and found that he was readying himself. It already felt as though his needs would be provided for. Already, he felt a pull towards the location of the proper answer. His head shot up. There! The one that had been too afraid to enter was trying to do so; he no longer skulked on the steps. 

It was the one that had been so uncertain as to his care; the one that had aided in killing his Master had come when he was needed most. He had assumed the Professor would be the one. This would be so much more _fun_.

“Come in. Oh, _do_ come in,” Jonathan sang out. “Dr. Seward? It is you, isn't it?” He called out with a sudden and deceptive upturn of his lips. He wasn’t his old self; he wasn’t truly providing a welcoming smile. “Blood is life. If yours stops flowing in offering, he may return. If you should go, you cannot behold a sacrifice for his greater glory.” His eyes lost their humour, and his voice grew cold. “You tampered with the body, or I might have used it.”

“We took precautions, Jonathan,” Seward warily explained as he saw the open casket. He kept a close eye on his patient, for he had witnessed the outburst from the shadows and knew that more could be on the way. He had seen this man in action when his master beckoned. “How much of you is out of his grip?” he wondered.

The true Jonathan had been glimpsed earlier; Seward thought he had heard him when he was in hiding and waiting for an opportunity; he had heard mumbling, and beheld a change in manner. He must reach him again. However, he knew from experience just how unpredictable that other subservient self was.

Seward approached Jonathan as one would a wild horse that was easily spooked. He had learned such actions when dealing with an asylum. Sometimes it aided in sadder cases; he hoped it would in this one. He remained in his line of sight, and let him see his hands were empty. Jonathan seemed to be out of his frantic mood, though the mania wasn't gone by his actions.

“Jonathan?” Seward prompted.

“More than before; less than you’d like,” Jonathan replied as he looked away with a small chuckle. He held the ring loosely, and mounted a casket; he glanced down at the plaque. From the dates, this may be Lucy’s grandfather he was atop. He hopped to another with little care, as he came up with a proper strategy. He must wear his doctor down, before he should strike.

“Please come down from there,” Seward requested cautiously. A harsh yet brittle laugh was his reply. Seward knew Jonathan wasn’t even behaving in a manner such as he would even when it was dark. By the look of his eyes, the true Jonathan was half here and half not. Panic bled through; it was just a flicker, and then it parted as the servant resumed control of whatever inner situation there was.

“What does he want you to do, Jonathan?” Seward asked as Jonathan turned. Those eyes were dangerous; or they would be, with anything about to harm with. He glanced to the corner, and prayed Jonathan wouldn’t tear the stake out of Lucy’s breast and use it to stab him. A moment came and went when he seemed to ponder that very thing, before the thought was evidently discarded for being too grisly even for him. 

Jonathan shrugged from his perch, as he knelt down. “My Master will have your blood,” he hummed. “It will be hot as it pours out; it will be cold as he arrives, of course. It is such a shame that when he comes, when he walks through infinity again, he cannot taste _yours._ ” He seemed to give that thought great attention. “It wouldn’t be pure; it wouldn’t be fresh; it would have been spilled for a greater cause.”

Seward was amazed. It was like they were chatting about the weather. Death and bloodshed were merely conversation starters to the man in this state. Seward lifted his hand when Jonathan was going to move away; if this went badly, they might lose him altogether. “Don’t—Jonathan, I want you to look at me. Tell me all he wants.” He chose not to get any closer.

Jonathan’s eyes grew distant, so that he might list it all. “Let the blood flow over the ash or the ring. One is gone, but one is here. In the bloodletting, I must provide great quantities before I let him in,” Jonathan disclosed. He felt dizzy, and almost fell from the top of the coffin before he steadied himself. He needed nourishment. He hadn’t consumed enough small lives, had he? “There are many ways. I see them all stretching out before me.”

Seward thought it almost sounded as though Jonathan was repeating something learned by rote. Or, perhaps, it was merely spoken in tandem with the voice of the Count from the past. Seward and the Professor had discussed such matters as post-hypnotic suggestion when Seward was but a student. To see such a thing up close was astounding.

Jonathan jumped down when it felt like that cold spot was surrounding him again. He shivered, and moved to sit on the floor. It only stopped when he was seated before Seward. It only eased when he focused on him. The servant silently cursed Lucy for shepherding him like a sheep; he was the wolf among the placid flock.

Seward knelt carefully beside Jonathan, but not close enough for an easy strangulation. He wouldn’t touch him. If this was done by mesmerism, he need only get his attention, and draw the man back. The Professor had almost managed it. There had to be a way to unravel this mess. He hadn’t anything for the man to become lost in and he most assuredly couldn’t use hypnosis himself; he only had his hope, and his voice; he had to keep it steady.

“Focus on my voice, Jonathan.” When the man looked his way and grimaced, Seward sighed. “Do _you_ want to die, Jonathan? Do you want _me_ to die?” He truly hoped the answer was no.

Jonathan struggled with himself, and it seemed his true self was beginning to break through as he gave a shudder. “I don’t wish to, but he might,” Jonathan managed. Then, he was gone. “Neither to kill, nor to die, but to survive within this body, and to bring him back, I suppose I must.” He swallowed. “I _should_ kill you for taking my chance away with her body,” he mumbled almost petulantly.

There he was. It was a start to bringing the real Jonathan back. Should was the word that Seward would cling to in his hour. He hadn't said he would. “Do you truly wish to?” The man had an opportunity in this private moment. Killing him with a ring would take time; smashing a vase over Seward’s head was a terrible thought that could come true if he didn’t reach Jonathan.

Jonathan didn’t answer, and appeared distracted in a different way than before. He massaged his temples.

“Kindly listen to me. Do you trust me?” Seward urged when he sensed him weakening. “I need you to come back to yourself. I need you to let the real Jonathan out. I need you to discount his words, and block him from your thoughts. I need you to hurl him away from you. I need him to wake up and fight harder for control.”

Jonathan gasped as a thought crashed through his defenses that was not his own, and suddenly moved to his feet. He seemed to have a revelation, as he laughed with delight. He suddenly understood what he had lacked. He hopped upwards to stand on a coffin again, and peered into a vase half hidden by a bouquet of flowers that he had not observed before.

What had the man found back there? Seward didn’t dare ask, but instead waited.

Jonathan climbed back down with an air of great expectation; he shoved his hand into the third vase, uncaring that there might be cobwebs or something alive in there. If there was, he’d have himself a snack. Slowly, he pulled out a dagger; quietly, he stroked the hilt. He cradled it against his chest, and bowed his head in a sick reverence. “Thank you, Master,” he murmured. Even as he spoke, he looked like he might collapse. The weight of that thought had shaken through every bit of him with the force of an explosion.

Seward didn’t dare approach if he had a weapon. He finally got a good look at it, as Jonathan stepped out of that darker corner; it was evidently old, and it was very sharp. He could see dried blood at the edge of it. How many had died beneath it? As he heard the next words, he was glad he hadn’t stepped any closer.

Jonathan panted as though he might be ill; his face was ashen. He licked his lips, and glanced to Seward as though struggling to focus; he couldn’t process the fact he was even present. Then, his eyes fixed on something only he could see, as he stiffened. “I…bequeath this unto you, to aid in my resurrection, in the event that I should temporarily part from your side, Jonathan. I have many strategies. You will understand your purpose in its use.” Jonathan stumbled, and held himself up with a pillar.

While the voice had held the Count’s intonations, it was still Jonathan’s.

Jonathan shook his head, as he blinked quickly; the servant seized control of himself again with a dangerous smile. “I didn’t know he planted that. I didn’t know about this until I was struck by the memory not my own. He takes care of his chosen few.” He sounded dazed, but held the blade in a threatening angle. “There was a fight so long ago; so much bloodshed around the castle,” he whispered before the full explanation of the weapon’s origin eluded him.

That wasn’t a possession, Seward deemed. He had seen Jonathan when he was briefly possessed, and this wasn’t that. Or it was, but that was just the servant in control. The rest was a good dose of the Count’s memories riding him from beyond the grave. It was just enough to get the point across. Had that blade actually been planted before they converged on this spot? Astounding.

How had the Count strategised so far ahead? Had he planned to turn Lucy from the moment he met her? Had he contemplated such from afar, before he set foot across the threshold? It was likely so, and Seward was horrified further.

“Do you really feel it necessary to stab me?” Seward warily asked, calmer than he felt. He struggled to keep his voice even, though he felt he could easily panic. Jonathan now leaned against the wall, and appeared confused by the question, before he returned to studying the sharpness.

Jonathan shook his head, as though that was a stupid thing to question. “You opposed him, Dr. Seward. In the hour I am required to slay another, _you_ arrive. When I consider offering myself, _you_ come; just as I was shown where to find it. The blood will find a way to be shed. You are the lamb offered up to the wolf’s pack,” Jonathan murmured. What part of that was difficult to understand? His voice became vague by the end. A confused terror began to peek out.

“But do _you_ want to?” Seward asked again. He could use that fear, and help him. “Do you want to kill?” He had asked before if Jonathan wanted to die. Neither of them wished to. Would Jonathan kill him? “I’m asking _you_ , Jonathan. I want to know what you think, and want to hear your opinion on the topic at hand. I am asking the solicitor that has been buried. I am asking the husband that went missing abroad. I am not speaking to the unthinking servant who desires me harm, am I? I saw you there. I can _see_ you."

It felt like someone was taking Jonathan by the hand and leading him back to civilisation. The true Jonathan desired such a guide, for he was so lost. “He’s made me do particular matters before, albeit by way of that dark thing’s solicitude. He has buried those who sated the Count’s hunger,” Jonathan confessed shakily, even as that cold hand touched his elbow as though beseeching him to reconsider.

Jonathan sighed; it was hard speaking of himself as another sought to use his body. He looked for a physical representation of the woman he felt, and found nothing. What was he _doing_? He shouldn’t be distracted. There was a growl inside his head, but he tried to shove it back; he knew he was failing. There were tears in the man’s eyes, as he guessed at the depravity that would follow should he fail.

Jonathan shivered, as the servant piled on feelings of alienation; abandonment; estrangement from humanity, and all those that deemed him a friend. He gave a nearly inaudible gasp, when it felt like claws wrapped around his heart; his soul; his world. Such emotion was but a distraction. Between one breath and the next, much like in the graveyard, his world flickered and melted away.

Seward wanted to preemptively declare that there was hope. Jonathan had said ‘Count.’ He had not said ‘Master.’ It wasn’t a trick, for this one seemed more emotionally demonstrative, and less canny. “And can you remember what that did to you, Jonathan, as you shovelled dirt over what was once a living, breathing person? Did he let you react to the shock?”

Seward nodded when Jonathan shook his head once. If he didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t be listening. If he didn’t trust him, and wasn’t so close to winning, he would have slain Seward by now. Jonathan’s hold on his sanity might be best described as tenuous after all he had endured. That other persona was even more impetuous. 

He almost called the other one Thirty-Four, just as he had dubbed him for so many months. It would only be to keep it straight in his head, but he felt that it could only cause an unneeded headache. If he said it aloud in this one’s presence, it might cause trouble. Before he could ask any further questions, it was the wrong one speaking.

“I am supposed to bring him back; if not in body, then he must be reborn in another’s shape. Why would I resist?” Jonathan insisted seriously, as though he sought to be talked out of this. He hid his growing smirk with a shaking hand, lest it give away his subterfuge. 

His voice was quite matter of fact to his way of thinking; it was all the better to get Seward closer to the thought that he was safe. The servant was not so simple as that; neither was he conflicted anymore. The true turning point had come and gone without the man before him even noticing. 

He greatly desired to wave away the spirit as he felt her drifting near once more; she was getting on his last nerve. So were the continuous entreaties to a man that had lost his battle quietly; meekly; soundlessly. His expression was diabolical, for all his attentions must be concentrated on the sentimental tripe.

In Seward’s opinion, the real Jonathan needed further aid in crashing through this evil thing using his body. That was all that mattered. “Am I understanding this correctly, Jonathan? He would require the taking over of a body. Of mine, if you chose the closest. Granted, you just want me for my blood. Or is it to be the claiming of _yours_?” He waited, but there was no answer. From the expression, he began to wonder if Jonathan heard him anymore.

“Is that the manner, Jonathan?” Seward continued. A soft growl of fury reached his ears, before it transmuted and became a chortle. It was as though Jonathan had a secret, and shouldn’t share it. He chose to focus on the former, and not the latter. He must be on the right track if he was getting under his skin. "Van Helsing's books theorise nothing good would come of it." Or so he assumed, for he hadn't read enough.

“Those books of yours,” Jonathan finally snarled as he rose to his feet and turned away. He had grown tired of the play. He glared over his shoulder. “You seek to confuse and disorientate with your muddled conjectures. You know _nothing_ of the Master’s might; yes, you’ve slain him for a time. It shall be but a brief rest for him in the end! Your allies won’t save you; you’ll bleed out before they can lift a finger,” he whispered. 

He pointed the blade in the direction he must strike. He could picture the amount that would flow from such a wound. “Even as unseen as they certainly are.” He was referencing the living, as well as the dead, for surely _they_ had conjured the unseen apparition.

That Weston woman haunted him, and so he would blame them for it. She had driven him this way and that, like a chained hound. That was not his true wonder. The old self within was also putting up quite the unforeseen resistance in this hour. That was why she was here, wasn’t it? He must be inviting the woman to touch him and soothe him and save him, with his sad little cries.

Seward wasn’t able to conceal his terror; however, he would not draw the others into this. He would not see Mina stabbed by a man that wore her husband’s face. He wasn’t certain how the Professor would be up to a physical altercation. The crypt would be littered with fresh bodies, and the Count would return. He could hear the others struggling not to intrude just outside from various crunching leaves, and was grateful when the sounds retreated. 

Seward knew that he should not speak, no matter how much he wanted to urge Jonathan on to fight this thing that had stolen his life.

Jonathan guessed what he wanted; he could also smell his fear. “Your attempts are futile,” he smiled. “That isn’t how you planned it? Oh, dear. Your words are…unheard. I've blocked him from hearing them.” He said it sweetly; mockingly; he said it as though his triumph were near.

Jonathan practically leapt forward in a rush, without further hesitation; he would not let the man deflect his intent. He spun Seward with him, and hoped to make him dizzy before anything else. He wanted a victim that stumbled and staggered. _He_ would disorientate _the doctor_.

Seward pulled himself loose of Jonathan’s grasp; his arm was clutched tightly. Seward was driven backwards viciously, then, with an arm against his neck until his back crashed into the cold wall. Both men panted from their exertions. Seward couldn’t get away, as he was forced into a better angle for the madman. He was no man of adventurer, or man of action. He was doing the best he could.

The dagger was moved, so that it was now held firmly against the right side of his throat; his other hand wrapped itself around the left side, and squeezed threateningly.

Jonathan wouldn’t allow one single cry to escape his mouth. With the right pressure, his throat could be sliced from ear to ear if he desired.

Seward tried to breathe, and was almost prevented. Would his attempts end like this? He had seen Jonathan leap upon the Professor once; he had broken loose from attendants with an unnatural strength. He had hoped with the true man drifting about, he would live.

The blade pressed harder, before it moved slowly back. He didn’t feel a trickle of blood, though; he didn’t see the ring to collect it yet. His heart quickened from the suspense and exertion.

The intent was clear to Seward within moments, and his eyes widened further. He wasn't being spared; this was angling for the kill. It would not be from the carotid artery; it would not be quick or clean. No, Jonathan’s arm was rising to deliver the killing blow. There was enough pressure on his throat from the grip that he fleetingly wondered if strangulation would be the death of him before that blade would plunge into his heart.

Seward’s hand futilely tried to tear loose that grip, but only earned an evil chuckle as Jonathan got himself back into position. Seward’s vision went white around the edges. He managed to focus. That wasn’t his lungs starving for oxygen before all went black—or not entirely that. It was a glittering, silver mist appearing from nowhere, and moving like an unstoppable wave towards them.

He felt like it was something there to aid his cause, and so did not warn Jonathan. He closed his eyes as though to say a final prayer; a cold hand moved over his cheek. It wasn't Jonathan's. It felt so familiar.

He opened his eyes again, as the grip on this throat left; the mist moved through Jonathan. The servant had let go of him, so that he might back away from it. He began to ineffectually swing the dagger at his opponent. Seward moved to put a coffin between him and the drama that was playing out. Quietly, he rubbed his throat. His collar should conceal the worst of any bruises that should form. He wasn’t bleeding.

In awe, he resolved to never antagonise or speak ill of the dead, especially if it were their tomb. When the mist blocked his view, he became uncertain. Should he speak up, and beg whoever it was not to harm a man who couldn’t help his actions? It thinned out, until he could see forms.

There was a woman, face obscured, with her hand stretching out. And then, a single man; Jonathan slowly moved to his knees, before he doubled over.

And then, all was still. He perceived hands clutching Jonathan’s forehead, silvery tendrils moving this way and that, like a cloud. Whatever occurred in another landscape than this, Seward wouldn’t touch Jonathan until it had ended. A breeze began when he even thought of doing so; perhaps the wind would keep him back.

And so, he waited in silence and concern, hoping that his friends didn’t come upon this. Jonathan’s body twitched as though fighting an inner battle; Seward tensed.

If this spirit meant to save Jonathan, then she was on their side. He should not intrude. He wasn't sure how he could anyway.

He only hoped the right man prevailed.  
\--

Jonathan gasped; in truth, the servant and the true self gasped together. It felt as though someone was stepping through his body; someone else was gaining entrance in an already crowded place. There came a communiqué to his true self; it was something far simpler than a telegram: it was a sensation, a knowing of intent.

And in that sensation, Jonathan felt as though he had come to know his true ally at last. She was here; she was everywhere, though he couldn’t see her as more than an afterimage. The servant was a wolf within his flesh, and did not belong. She wished to help him.

They both understood the situation in a way that Jonathan could never explain. Lucy Weston could only do so much; she could shove the hunter a short distance; she could trip him up. The rest was on him. It was enough that she drove him back; it was enough that she lessened its grip.

She had done so in the crypt; she did so further now. He was forced to challenge it, then, and show his dedication. He was inspired by her efforts; he was emboldened by Seward's trust, though he was still weak.

He lifted a fireplace poker when the spirit seemed outmatched, and swung it at what felt like a beastly shadow to him; it was viscous, and intruded on everything inside him. It was an infestation. It was there, and then it wasn’t; it was hidden from his eyes. He passed through it like vapour.

He dropped the weapon; it vanished before it touched the floor. It was ephemeral. There was a sense of unreality about this area. Still, did his lashing out cause the servant to become weaker? Smaller? Lighter? He couldn’t say. He felt Lucy’s praise, and presumed a hair’s breadth of progress was better than no resistance.

It was better than their utter defeat in a black void. He could only shove and cajole at an interloper so much, as these were not physical items in here. An old and rusty knife did little to harm it. Should he become ineffective, his doctor would die. This, though, spurred him on.

It was enough for him to act, and latch what felt like a physical and metaphorical gate. With shaking hands, he did so. He put every imagined piece of furniture before it, even though it—servant; wolf; hunter; the other; whatever he termed it—would still be able to escape, as he had no skill in this.

Jonathan paced; it wouldn’t hold for long. Lucy’s touch came then, and further explanation. It was not for longer than it took to reject the other, and reclaim his body. It would be just long enough to leave here; to hope; to love; to struggle. It was his task in the end. He would be alone at the point of singularity, as the battle grew in the future.

Jonathan let her know that he was in her debt, and he felt a gentle laugh around him. ‘For Mina’s sake; for yours,’ he heard her say. 'For John's,' she added in a heartbroken tone. He would console her for the loss of her future with him if he were able, but such was not to be. She was all around him, and not in one focused place.

At last, he looked around him in this strange place in which he had come for the battle. He knew this area. Jonathan grew concerned that the apartments in which he resided in the castle were what he had conjured as a place of safety. Was the sanctuary influenced by the Count’s earlier violation, or by the servant’s present one? It had to be both.

The creature had infiltrated more of his psyche than he was comfortable admitting. He felt a hard shove, and an urgent need to depart. If not heeded, surely he would be thrown in there and lose his body again. _‘Go,’_ Lucy implored.

“I will kiss Mina once in your name, madam,” he swore with gratitude. He knew of particular dalliances in their youth. He knew of their love. There was laughter welling up around him, from her; the sound was greater than the servant's roar of fury.

In the crypt, Seward was pacing. The place was colder than when he entered; it felt like an eternity had passed with Jonathan in that state of dormancy. He consulted his pocket watch, and found it was but three minutes. He looked up as flowers scattered from a sudden wind, and sought to catch them, before giving up.

Let the caretaker find and fix that. Seward glanced at Jonathan; his face rose, eyes squeezed tight. Jonathan was shaking, while Seward wondered what the devil was happening. Then, the wind subsided. Dust motes swirled as though they had a mind of their own. Carefully, Seward moved from his place.

Jonathan crawled from his prone position, up to his hands and knees. “Jonathan?” Seward softly called. He was reluctant to approach. Jonathan’s hand had reclaimed the knife; it was held loosely, along with the ring.

Jonathan glanced over, looking like he had come a long distance in a bumpy carriage, and was yet to recover. He gradually took in where he was. “Yes?” He wondered as he regained his bearings. He moved slowly to his feet, shaken. “The words have floated away; the other remains. He’s…unhappy in my rusted cage. I—I can’t explain what occurred without sounding mad, but this must be temporary.”

Seward studied Jonathan’s eyes and face. The servant was not so good a mimic as that. He found that he believed him, but he required more facts. “Try,” he encouraged.

“I had assistance. You brought me part of the way; another aided me further,” Jonathan quietly asserted.

“Whoever it was, are they known to us?” Seward inquired tensely.

“It wasn’t an evil presence,” Jonathan managed. At last, he realised what he had instinctively scooped up when all he had done had dazzled him. He might have nicked himself if the other gained ground; he still might. It must be taken away.

Seward was just as frazzled, but sought to calm himself, and smooth his shirt; he was quite ruffled from the physical altercation. He pondered Jonathan's words. The only recent deaths were Mr. Swales, Mr. Cannon, the Count…and Lucy.

Only one of those four would have an excuse for being present, and he couldn’t confirm it without Jonathan’s aid. Then again, only one was a woman. God, he hoped it was that particular one. Would he ever know for certain?

His horizons must certainly be expanded to include ghosts, as well as vampires. “Sound and fury,” he quoted aloud. That was all his past insistence had once been, in the matters of the paranormal. It signified nothing, much as Shakespeare had written in another situation.

Jonathan didn’t follow his line of thought, but wouldn’t dismiss it. He had far more pressing things on his mind. This dagger didn't belong with him. It wasn't his to wield. He was not a man that would take a life. Jonathan found that he wanted this weapon of death out of his sight.

Jonathan took a long look at the man that thought he was worth saving at the cost of his own life. Seward reached carefully to take the blade; Jonathan pulled it back. No; not yet; he felt unsafe to be within range just then. He must gather himself.

They stared at each other, as Seward hoped he was putting the right amount of trust to him. He didn’t move his hand back. He didn't see a flicker of the servant within Jonathan's eyes, aside from the occasional gritting of teeth as Jonathan strained against presumed encroaching thoughts.

Jonathan held the dagger to his chest. Soon enough, he realised how it must look, and what he was doing. His actions were mildly influenced by the servant, but he was only calming himself. Seward waited; when Jonathan hurriedly rushed back to his side to explain, he flinched. He likely believed himself to be seconds from another assault. Jonathan looked mortified at the blunder.

“My apologies. I mean no harm,” Jonathan whispered, wide-eyed. He offered it carefully, hilt first, to Seward. Seward quietly accepted it, and then with a look of disgust moved it back to the vase where it had been pulled from. He dropped it in; they listened to the muted thunk as it hit the bottom.

Seward refrained from commenting, as he saw that Jonathan wasn’t finished with the ring yet; knowing his words had reached him; choosing to trust him after so much effort on many parts to bring him to this point.

Jonathan looked down at the ring in his palm, as another impulse struck. _“Go away,”_ Jonathan suddenly screamed down at the ring. He was speaking of the Count; he would not be his prisoner again. He spoke of the servant, and poured in all his revulsion for that cage. He had felt the urge to slide it onto his finger, and scratch his skin, but understood that was the other’s desperation, and not his own.

He glanced back to Seward; Jonathan was trying to come to grips with everything as his emotions swirled, fearful he would take offense for shouting. He smiled when it felt like someone embraced him proudly. He didn't comment on the fact, not knowing how to explain it. It was only Miss Weston; she was glad he was taking this step. He was not alone.

Jonathan looked back down, and found the strength to continue. “I—I don’t want you near me or around me, or inside me anymore with accursed instructions. I can’t bring you back. I can’t do it. I won’t do it...I won’t! I want my life back. I am Jonathan Harker. I am a solicitor, who meant no harm. I only wanted someone to sign a contract. _Go away_ ,” he firmly murmured; as he did so, he flung the ring from him. It went sailing, striking the wall.

From there, it rolled almost innocently to a far corner.

There was a tense moment as the two watched the ring. Seward waited, and then finally sighed when he saw how much Jonathan was shaking. “Were you waiting for an answer from it, too?”

“Yes,” Jonathan admitted with the barest trace of hysteria. “Oh, God, yes!” Tears started, and he felt Seward rubbing his back as he hid his face in his own hands. He also felt that with that rejection, and with that fight, the servant of the Count’s had lost a bit more of its power. Granted, it was still there, but it wasn’t as strong as it had been. “It’s not over if it or he exists,” he moaned.

Jonathan searched himself before he chose to answer an unspoken question. Seward must certainly be champing at the bit to know his status. “I can’t hear the ritual. I don’t even remember what it would have been. The phrase—it—‘blood is life,’ and I think it’s a distant babbling of fury from the servant currently. I don’t hurt so much.”

“That’s better,” Seward said with approval. He looked at him with a doctor’s eyes, and deemed him as fit as could be expected, given his circumstances with that scuffle and collapse, and everything in between these past few months. He sighed. “Until we’re sure this is over, do you think you can remain as you are?”

Jonathan rubbed his eyes free of the tears that struggled to flow ever onward. “I’ll try. I swear I’ll try. Don’t let me hurt Mina if I fail. Never her. I don’t want to be lost and watching, when something else scratches through me and binds me.” When Seward squeezed his shoulder, Jonathan practically collapsed onto the man. He wanted to be dignified, but these were extraordinary circumstances. He couldn’t contain the emotion.

“You aren’t accustomed to your patients behaving in this manner, are you?” Jonathan wondered with the start of a self-effacing grin. He picked up on Seward's hesitation, even as Jonathan released a broken and watery chuckle. He didn’t want to seem overly familiar, but the situation was unusual.

“Getting potentially mystical knives in black magic rituals away from people who endeavour to resurrect a fiend from a bygone age?” Seward dryly asked. Or even watching the man endure God knew what at the hands of a ghost and the servant. “Why, no, Jonathan. It...really hasn’t ever come up before.” He sighed as the situation caught up with him. He wondered if Lucy were still listening to them; he felt she was.

In a far kinder tone, he added, “I have dealt with families grieving the institution of a loved one, but it’s usually the orderlies they fall upon, as I make my excuses. I get away with only patting their hands.”

“I’m not honoured to be the first, sir…but thank you,” Jonathan acknowledged tightly. Then, his thoughts wandered to his wife. “Mina,” Jonathan managed between tears. “She’s going to be so torn between her nature and his, if it’s anything like this for her. I’m sorry, Dr. Seward.”

“It’s not your fault. Can you understand that?” Seward asked. He waited, and finally received a nod against his shoulder before he pulled away.

Jonathan took a deep breath, and finally moved to stand. He sought to get himself back under wraps when it came to his emotions. He accepted a quietly offered handkerchief and wiped his face. His eyes would likely be ringed with red, so there was no concealing the worst of it.

Seward watched him back off, before he looked back over his shoulder and flinched at the sight of Lucy’s open coffin. He feared another collapse was imminent, but managed to avoid getting emotional himself. He had been focused on Jonathan as he entered, and so did not stare long on the body.

“She didn’t like that he wanted to bring the Count back. And so, she came. She aided my battle against the servant,” Jonathan softly murmured. He backed away a step, reluctant to bother her further, wherever she was. He stroked the cool marble that held her name, before he crossed himself out of respect. He knew that she wanted to save anyone touched by the Count.

Jonathan half expected to flinch in disgust, but kept himself steady as he performed the action. He would show her respect, as he had the man within the grave that the Count had chosen. “Rest in peace, Miss Weston,” he offered quietly. If she could, he thought.

Seward turned back to the man with curiosity. “Then, that was her?” Lucy’s death was so raw for him.

Jonathan slowly looked around the tomb, but didn’t sense her at this juncture. “Yes. She touched me before you came, too, for he mocked that she was not as he was,” he confessed. “On the arm. And then…sort of here,” he added as he gestured to first his temple and then his cheek. “It was cold, but it was a hand. It wasn't harsh. There was no striking me. You have witnessed the rest, though she lingered invisibly about me until that angelic revelation."

Jonathan chose to continue with something that bothered him. “Clarity didn’t last, such as it was. I heard the _Count’s_ voice in my head, and he demanded that I—that he—that we ignore her.” That troubled him. It meant there was more than just instructions left for him, didn’t it? He shared a look with Seward, before there was a gesture for him to continue.

“I never saw her until you did, save for someone gesturing behind me. She never spoke until she entered me.” Jonathan pointed to the ring, and delivered a warning. “Someone might still use that.”

“I know,” Seward agreed. He was stunned by the idea of a ghost fighting for Jonathan’s soul with him. He was saddened that he hadn’t seen her face. “If it helps, I’ll wait to pick up the ring until you aren’t looking,” he explained. That seemed to console Jonathan.

He wouldn’t touch the dagger again, though. Not right now. He would tell Van Helsing of it, and if he presumed it to be of use, he could deal with it. If it bore elements of the supernatural, then he suspected it would be put on display or experimented on; it would be much as the man’s watch fob had been employed for mesmerism once he had found that it was once haunted.

“She was writing a note, but I couldn’t listen, and so I didn’t look. He didn't want me to,” Jonathan whispered further. This felt like such an odd conversation to be having; and yet, they were witnesses. “It was over there.” He gestured somewhere near where the ring had landed. “Do not tell me where you put the ring. Do not let me see. Do not ever tell me whom you place it with. You cannot trust me,” he warned.

He didn’t know if he could keep the other one from tracking that person down if he were told. This was all so new to Jonathan. Then, he remembered her message. “She wants you safe,” Jonathan gently added.

When Seward had an opening, he would take care of it. He then nodded, and went to see. His opinion in the past was that ghosts were bunk; vampires had been written off as well; both were now to occupy his thoughts for years to come. Yes, he thought with that last comment. The feeling was mutual, even in her current state, if she was to still walk their world.

There it was. A message written in Lucy’s hand, with Lucy’s flourish, in the dust behind Lucy’s coffin. He supposed it had reformed following the wind.

The words were simple, and could not be misinterpreted. ‘Help them.’ “Oh, _Lucy._ ” Seward closed his eyes as he turned, and put his hand on the wall, as he fought the urge to weep as much as Jonathan had. He couldn’t do that again after he had just wept for her death, and then for her second death with the stake driven through her heart.

He took a breath, and mentally promised he would do all that he could. There was something ice cold just above his back, as though someone had sought to touch him, and restrained that impulse at the last.

He clenched his fists to restrain himself from turning around and being disappointed by not seeing her. Or even for seeing her face, but not her features. The chill hovered over the back of his neck, before it was gone.

He forced himself not to dwell on her lingering in a twilight world where she could watch, but never communicate more than she had. The coffin was still open.

He didn’t have the heart to be the one to close it. He supposed Van Helsing must be the one to do so before Mrs. Weston gathered herself enough to pay her daughter a visit.

Jonathan looked away and grew distant. Seward scooped the ring up, and shoved it deep into his vest pocket. Seward paused, and realised that Jonathan was not looking quite as well as he had previously. He wasn’t looking as bad as when he had sought out the dagger, but it worried him.

Seward moved to touch Jonathan’s arm, and heard a small sigh. “I don’t feel quite right,” Jonathan managed to force out, as his hand went to his forehead.

Jonathan swayed, and was grateful when Seward caught him by the forearm, for he didn’t have the wherewithal to catch himself. The world had gone topsy turvy quite unexpectedly once he had a moment to truly react. He was gently ushered to an old bench, and struggled to catch his breath. The worst of the sensation was soon passing.

He moaned, for his head was splitting with all the upheaval. The other one wanted to strike out. Something moved and twisted inside him, rising up through his throat until he could no longer speak, and into his skull as though it would take possession in a new way, and burst out through his forehead, much as Athena had done to Zeus upon her birth.

Then, it retreated as though it knew it would be forced backward again. He was being hysterical; he was left shaking, and was scared to speak of it. He was just…overwhelmed. He shivered as he felt Lucy’s touch again. How odd it was to be continually soothed by a dead woman. He felt her palm patting his face to keep him focused, and the coldness of it was actually helping to lessen the severity of his body’s reaction.

If it didn’t harm anyone or do anything, then he felt that he didn’t need to speak of it. Everyone already knew of his plight. What more could they do, when this wasn’t a disease to treat?

Seward kept his hands on Jonathan’s shoulders as he crouched beside him. Jonathan had turned a worrying shade of grey, and Seward knew the other man was on the brink of a true fainting spell. He had been there himself, and knew the feeling. He didn’t want him to deal with an injury caused from a collapse of that sort after all the poor man had endured. He stopped him before he could rise and fake being well.

“Breathe in slowly, Jonathan,” Seward entreated. “Can you do that for me? Just for a moment. Give yourself a chance to recover. You need to stay seated until it passes.” He had sprung into action once he understood it wasn’t a trick. 

“It’s better…or it’s getting there, unless you jostle me. I shall ruin the flowers,” Jonathan replied in a shaky tone. It wouldn't do to retch all over a place meant to honour the dead. The servant within did not like that he was on top. “My perceptions weren’t right, were they? Before, in the asylum? I could hear the Count’s voice speaking to me and to him when nobody was present. There was a corruption placed inside me at the castle. It thrived on eating those deucedly unpleasant things in your cells.”

He was just talking; he was filled with uncertainty. He needed to focus, and not have his thoughts be scattershot.

Seward smiled for an instant in empathy, before it faded in the face of his concern. That was one far more polite way to describe his insistence on devouring insects. He was going to write this conversation off as potentially being hysterical babbling, of little consequence save for speaking of horrors. They already knew of this.

“The evil spread inside me like a fungus. I do not know how else to phrase it,” Jonathan haltingly speculated. He recalled the images in that landscape in his mind. “And some is gone, but the grimy residue of that one lingers. I don’t know. Whatever the Count did with his blood… something of him was entwined so deeply in me that when he was slain, when the other was prevented just now, the reaction coursed through my mind.”

He swallowed, leaning over; Seward helped to show him that it would be best if he put his head between his knees to prevent another spell. “After some delay, my head felt as though it was being crushed like a melon.” He waved a hand, confused about what he was saying. It was all he dared to explain. “I don’t feel I should keep calling him ‘that other one,’ should I?” Jonathan wondered.

He looked annoyed, then. “I was mad. No, scratch that. He is mad.” The madness still lived within him, and the other one still sought retribution. He took care not to mention this, and couldn't entirely say why that was. He did not want to protect such a monstrosity. He just couldn't speak.

“You were, but it was induced; it was him; it was forced upon you through the force of the Count’s will,” Seward explained. “I can’t make a proper diagnosis of you until I’ve seen more of the real you and less of the facsimile given life by him. Your case has changed for the better. Right now, I feel you’ve made the first step of a full recovery since he turned into ash.”

At the confusion, Seward sighed. “Unless it enrages him, call him Thirty-Four,” he suggested. Jonathan’s eyes widened; he paled further, briefly going limp until he wondered if the man would pass out entirely. “Jonathan?” He called softly. He shook him until he had his attention.

Jonathan shook his head, and then tapped it with great care. “The suggestion displeases him from the sensation of particular growls and snarls. They were intense. He shall not go back to the designation he was given,” he weakly replied. “I—I’m sorry. We’ll stick with the confusion of this course, rather than choose another appellation.”

Seward agreed quietly. He couldn't let him go free just yet. He couldn't let him wander about the countryside with a vicious inmate inhabiting him. He felt Jonathan had a good grasp of that fact.

Jonathan swallowed, shivering as the unwanted memory of consuming rats pushed itself to the forefront of his thoughts. This was the repayment for daring to renew his claim on his body. “I was always so hungry,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It is lessened.”

When Seward didn’t stop him, he continued. “Everything was always too bright and sharp in the daylight. He was desperate to consume everything, but...I need time to know what is left.” He remembered stark terror that wound in and out and threaded itself into the marrow of his bones. He couldn’t detect the origin of that emotion, and wondered if it was the Count’s fear of the light spilling over into the one possessing him at the time.

“I know,” Seward said, in a fashion that he hoped was consoling. “Do you still feel sick?”

“I’m better now,” Jonathan said with a wan smile. A few moments more, and some healthier colour had returned to his cheeks. Or as healthy as it could be, given all he had going against him. “I’m not as I was…but I hope that I shan’t fall down into the dirt face first,” he courageously finished.

He allowed Seward to help him to his feet. He had a shaky moment when he almost fell, before he steadied.

“Do you feel ready? Now, then,” Seward said with a slight grin as that breeze stirred again, and wiped away the message. “Let us depart this place, before we find ourselves faced with a rescue party of two seeking to save me.”

They wouldn’t be doing any such thing, but it allowed Jonathan to think about something else.

Seward kept his hand on his elbow until they reached the door, in case he should require aid. There was a pause, as he leaned against the wall and turned a knowing look his way. Seward interpreted that expression as gaining the strength for any coming discussions. He had to shore up his reserves, before he was questioned.

After that, he was well enough to leave without assistance.


	4. Chapter 4

The sunrise had once provided a vicarious thrill of terror, in accordance with the Count’s hold over him. Now, dazed and stepping out from the crypt with Seward, Jonathan winced at the light. He hesitated before he continued to walk, awed to find there wasn’t anything to be afraid of in its appearance.

The last bright colours of the dawn played across the brightening sky. They hadn’t spent hours in the crypt, but minutes; half an hour at the most. When someone was fighting to keep their claim on their soul, it felt like so much longer. The servant had shunned it due to the Count’s influence, and slept at that hour; now that his true self was freer than he had been, he just wanted to see it and not become afraid for someone else.

He felt weariness, but no more than that for a few blessed seconds. Jonathan found Seward’s steadying influence behind him, and then the gentle pressure of his hand upon his shoulder. Jonathan glanced to him, silently wondering if he were still permitted to set foot near Mina. Seward could always deny him, though he suspected he wouldn’t.

“Sorry. I—I just needed to _see_ it. I wasn’t listening to his voice again,” Jonathan whispered. “I am still the one in control.”

“I think I understand,” Seward offered. When Jonathan looked back to him, he continued. “The servant always chose dawn to begin recovering from the night’s exploits, or his generally violent reactions,” he noted. “Of course you would miss actually being able to look upon it.” He shook his head when he saw the Professor approaching. He wanted Jonathan to have this moment; he wanted Jonathan to know he was himself, and savour that feeling before anyone sought to pry into his motivations.

As the duo passed in silence, Mina could see Jonathan's exhaustion. When he moved to sink onto a nearby bench, his ill-concealed terror and confusion was written in every line of his body.

Jonathan’s head bowed momentarily, before he was prepared enough to face them. He trusted Seward; he hoped Seward could reach him again should he lose in this unique climate. Mina put a hand to his shoulder, seeking to comfort him. He tensed until he recognised her touch. A welcoming expression emerged as he turned to her. 

Seward leaned over. “Just remember that you are the one in charge of your life. The other one belonged to him. You do not. Just repeat it to yourself. Try to find that dividing line within, and keep hold of a barrier.” He hoped that would be of some aid, though something told him it might not be.

Jonathan hugged himself, uncertain what to do next. The forming of a line would be difficult, because the thing was so insidious as to continually move. He was his own man. He was. It would sound mad to insist it aloud, but he would quietly. If he said the words enough, wouldn’t they be true? Would it make the other one have less strength?

He just needed to focus on that, and hope that would be the case. He just had to continue fighting, and force back that horrid twin of himself.

“Mina?” Jonathan quietly called. He clasped her hands gently, an apology written on his face; he smiled, and looked at the wedding band on her finger, recalling its distraction. She let go eventually, and touched his cheek, and he found himself feeling inadequate before her gaze. He must remember exactly who he was; he must not forget and sink. He couldn’t be with her yet, should there be a threat of another peering out of his eyes and harming her.

“How did he seize control of you so easily? Was it the intimacy of the backlash?” Van Helsing wondered in fascination. He gave Mina and Jonathan that time before he bothered them with his presence. 

Jonathan’s eyes became introspective at the mere suggestion of intimacy. He was not being questioned about impropriety; he knew that. “Blood is life,” he wryly announced as an explanation, before his face grew devious. He shook himself, for he sensed the other fighting back. He had only meant to say it in the manner of a beginning to his tale. No, he wouldn’t let him win. _No_. He pressed his palms into his forehead, before he felt steady enough to lower his hands. This was frustrating.

“My apologies for such a slip,” Jonathan continued, though he doubted there was an offense taken. “Don’t you discern the ramifications of those words, Professor? Not at all?” He realised his implications may have begun to sound cruel and nonsensical to the untrained ear, and he struggled to be himself. He shouldn’t fall back into that trap. 

Jonathan struggled for clarity as he moved back to his feet. What was the best way to put this? “The servant was made through a particular method of behaviour that the Count thought to introduce, you see. By blood he controlled me; by blood he kept me. I was immersed in it. I was blood of his blood, and flesh of his flesh. It was as he said one night in the castle.” He sensed the other’s eagerness to proclaim it, despite his reluctance to speak of it. He struggled to contain it.

“Did he bite you?” Seward wondered. He had wondered before, but presumed Jonathan would not answer such a question while controlled. Was that the way he was enslaved? He had never witnessed any scarring or bite marks on the man’s throat or wrists when he was struggling against being placed in a straitjacket, or in the hours in which he was placid, and allowed himself to be examined.

Jonathan shook his head quickly in frustration. “ _No_! You don’t understand, Dr. Seward. You never do. Or, rather, you didn't until the crypt. It goes and went far deeper than a mere bite, for it coursed through me, beneath my skin.” He felt as though he was being cryptic in a delicate dance with his other self winning.

In a softer tone, he added to Seward, “You will recall his yearnings for the Count, and his vibrant declarations. There was that one’s desperate longing to be bitten, but it had yet to be made reality.”

“He fed you his blood in an infernal ritual,” Van Helsing guessed.

“Yes, Professor,” Jonathan said with relief. While it was not him, it also confused him too much to impress upon everyone the use of the word ‘he,’ in relation to the other one. It was just as Seward said in the crypt, and he still couldn’t stand the strain of applying another name to it. It wanted his body and it wanted his soul, and it would fight against other implications with a viciousness that made him feel he would be torn apart inside.

“Yes,” Jonathan finally added. “He was to be his servant from the covenant, until I died, and I—he desired it and I loathed the thought in equal measure, as the sun rose or set.” He swallowed. “And now, it hurts, as the other writhes in my skull,” he admitted. “Not physically. I can’t explain it.”

“That is only natural,” Van Helsing replied. He almost chuckled at how flabbergasted Jonathan seemed at his words; as it was, he kept a straight face. Such an expression had somehow always brought ruin to Seward’s attempts at stoicism, and left the good doctor railing at him on at least one occasion. He was testing the waters of Jonathan’s control.

Jonathan's smile was strange, as he looked down at the ground. "Dr. Seward will speak of the dagger that I am pleased not to have at a later date. I should prefer not to be present at that discussion, lest he be invoked." The simplest of frustrations, or agonies at speaking with this man were tantamount to feeding the servant. It was making it stronger, and more difficult for the solicitor to control. He took a deep, calming breath.

Seward touched Jonathan’s arm to ground him; he caught the thankful expression in reply. A look and subtle head shake from him also confounded Van Helsing in his quest to speak in greater detail about the dagger. They could speak of it in private, just as Jonathan suggested.

“You were possessed by the Count in the cell. John, was he used in that manner in the mausoleum at any point?” Van Helsing asked as a way to turn the topic of conversation. He must know this as well, if the mention of the dagger was off limits. From his behaviour, it was possible.

Seward shook his head. “Yes and no. My answer is only yes, in that the servant possesses him. There were suggestions forced into action through him, while he was the other one. It was an interlocking mental puzzle that was bound to him,” Seward carefully replied. “The servant wishes to keep Jonathan’s body; Jonathan wishes to live. There were some words the Count planted, which Jonathan spoke. He said them in the Count’s manner, but it was an imitation and not a possession.”

“The pendulum swings back with the loss, so it is your mind that sits astride your body again,” Van Helsing pondered. That was, unless Jonathan should weaken, and the other should happen to leap into power. He must look into that.

“Many times when I could not speak as me, I felt as though I were outside myself. I viewed my actions as though I were an observer in a play.” Jonathan shrugged. “My body moved and spoke as another desired, taking flight into hysteria after strange mental sensations, like a flutter of movement. I was me and I was him and we were and are neither of us the other. I watched myself from the other side of the room…or from behind a wall sometimes.” Jonathan was confounded and couldn’t fully explain the sensation right away.

“Did you travel?” Van Helsing demanded.

“There were also bars, but they were crafted by the Count’s will.” Jonathan reared back in his seat, startled by the unexpected and gruffly put question. He soon recovered and thought. “Not far, sir. Never further than to where _his_ body was, in his coffin,” he fretfully answered. “Was I delusional, or did I do something wrong?” He needn’t speak of the mental travel Lucy had induced.

“You may have been at times,” Van Helsing began. “Your words are either a flight of fancy, or astral projection, if you were trapped within that form. Given the supernatural surrounding your mental state, the latter could be the truth. Between his inhabiting you in the cell, and that, it could be akin to an astral transference in that case, rather than a corporeal one, as you sought another road to travel,” he added with an air of restrained wonder.

Jonathan was baffled by the term, but from the look on Seward’s face he should just ignore it. He couldn’t, for he was curious. It also distracted him from his current melodrama, should he be required to study or ponder a new theory. “Astral?”

Van Helsing almost waved away his question, before he sighed. He thought he had provided Jonathan the barest of definitions, and saw no dawning of comprehension upon his face. He supposed mentioning the lack of a corporeal body was not sufficient. Such was to be expected with a man who was ignorant of the supernatural until he was cast into the role of servant to a vampire.

Confusion was not entirely his intent, and so he moved to elucidate. “In parapsychology, astral relates to the spirit, or second body of a person, which occasionally goes on a journey outside of the body. Sometimes it is in dreams; sometimes it is not. The theory goes it accompanies a man or woman through life, and would survive you after death. It is your soul or essence, for want of a better term.”

“Astral. In layman’s terms, you removed yourself from the confines of your trap,” Van Helsing relayed. His books had varying accounts, and could prove useful at a later date should Jonathan require examples. “These are all theories, for we have no proof, you see. You wandered aimlessly, tethered though you still were to both the Count, as well as to your body. Your flesh was used by another mind; your true self may have been sporadically ejected and left unattended as you roamed.”

As he continued his line of questioning, he found the empty vial of holy water from the earlier fracas unbroken on the ground, and tucked it into his pocket. He would refill it later. “Were you ever unexpectedly thrown backwards, as though either a golden or silver cord yanked you back into your bricked up alcove again? Or did you just disappear and reappear?”

“Yes,” Jonathan confirmed quietly. This was a lot to take in. “The first. It was like being a rag doll thrown about by a recalcitrant child. I never saw a colour, just the sensation at my back.” He was uncomfortable dwelling on those times. The other would evidently desire to recreate them, judging by all that occurred this morning. “The scenery went by too quickly. I thought I must hide.”

“Nature makes it so,” Van Helsing guessed. “It is known as an out of body experience. You desired to leave your enforced habitat. Away with you and your demonic corruption, your soul cried out! The servant would stay as he was, and perhaps be none the wiser. Your true self was barred from movement, and desired relief; an outlet...but you and he were both linked inexorably to the Count, and something of his energy or power bled through in the daylight hour when he slept. It is a rarity, and I doubt the circumstances could be replicated.”

“It was a coping mechanism, I should term it,” Seward interjected with a confused mixture of wonder and shock. “Others would call it heresy. I would call it survival.”

Van Helsing knew everyone presumed him to be the expert; and while he was a quick study, he was also new at broaching this subject. He mostly knew that if the cord had snapped, Jonathan would not be here, for he would be dead. He had so many books to study further. 

He was emboldened by the fascination writ upon Jonathan’s face, but ignored the horror. “And then the reverse, to shove you back into that cage of flesh and bone that others ruled with an iron fist until today. If it was never a location which you had personally laid eyes on, then that is my only answer.”

Jonathan was stunned as he mulled over this information in his mind. The other was quiet and not trying to overthrow him, which was a blessed relief. Was it boredom? That would be fantastic if it were so. Or was there guile? “And so astral means spirit.”

Van Helsing inclined his head. “So it does. It normally is relegated to the sleeping world, or those seeking enlightenment. Your case could be unique in the annals of history. Or they were just the dreams of a man who wanted to be free. We may never know."

 _Had_ Jonathan travelled? There was a peculiar vagueness when it came to certain recollections. He recalled the captain’s face, but knew not if that was from the other one’s wanderings or not anymore. He doubted they had been face to face, with the hiding and scuttling about, on the prowl for small lives.

It was muddled. He had been both in the hold, and not. He had been inside his cell, and outside at the same time listening to the distant babble of conversations; therein were overlapping memories and thoughts for each. Was there someone named Petrofsky, complaining about the food growing mouldy as the others disappeared?

Jonathan opened his mouth, ready with more questions, only to be cut off with a gesture.

Van Helsing was in his element as a tutor lecturing a pupil who required more study. “The phenomenon of corporeal transference, as with materialisation and astral projection, has been described in séances. I have never heard of it done in such a situation as this.” He frowned, lost in the potential and therefore not censoring himself as he continued onward. 

“What is it like to have all that you are scraped out and nearly used for refuse while you host another creature that never was alive?" It was a rhetorical question to him; it was personal for the man before him. "A monograph could likely be written on the subject of all you did and perceived under his command, if anyone would believe us.” That entrapment, infiltration, and corruption was a great curiosity to him, though it was mostly in an academic way. It would require much study.

Seward put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder before he could react. He felt the tension in the man’s body. “I’ll call it what it was. It was a gross violation upon Jonathan’s mind in the cruelest of ways. I don’t know how many other matters were piled on top of that manipulation. I doubt you know either, Jonathan. I've never seen the like in all the time I have been director of this asylum.”

It was Jonathan’s life. This was a living man struggling to reclaim his place in the world. It wasn’t a case study in a dusty old volume filled with the lives of strangers. If the Professor couldn’t keep that knowledge and sustain it, then at least Seward would. He saw when his chastisement had been considered and that his advice was accepted.

“So…when he was inside me in the cell, and elsewhere…when—when the servant who wasn’t the real me welcomed the Count into my body with open arms…was that a successful corporeal transference?” Jonathan asked when he felt as though his aching head would allow him to ponder such a theory.

“Yes, of a sort,” Van Helsing granted. “A temporary use, mind you, but you still existed. You were possessed. In séances it would, perhaps, be similar. With the events of tonight—or, rather, last night, had he managed to rule you again, and had we not intervened and won, we would not have such a happy outcome.”

“My body would move by another’s will with permanence,” Jonathan agreed reluctantly. “A vampire with him in full control, despite my body never having been bitten.” He chose his words carefully, for he wished to leave the man’s company without ill feelings being stirred by rudeness. Enough stirred in himself. “Thank you for caring about my case, Professor. I was unable to say much, but I tried _so hard_ when you directed my thoughts to the past under mesmerism.”

That which was within him had wanted that dire outcome; that didn’t need saying, from his actions.

“How could I resist your mysterious plight when John wrote to me? I had my intrigue from my former student, and so I came,” Van Helsing replied. He had only cared about the metaphysical repercussions when he came. He had really just wanted to discover the truth behind the enigma of a patient with a constantly changing pathology.

“I believe it would be best for this former student and his current patient to depart,” Seward sighed. He knew his mentor’s ways. “I think Jonathan needs to recover, and not be…studied at this time; after all, his cell is vacant, and someone is liable to raise the alarm.” Seward pointedly said. Jonathan sent him a grateful look for the rescue; Seward had noted he was overwhelmed by all this activity, and sought to aid him.

He had seen how Jonathan was beginning to pull away gradually. Not physically, but mentally. It wasn’t just a struggle to remain himself. Jonathan was just more at ease with him, and wary of the Professor. If he caused him frustration, he could understand that; withdraw, though, and he feared that servant would win. 

Then, he had another thought. Seward urged Jonathan to wait. “Professor, stop. I have a question. Might holy water stall any residual torments for him?”

“Yes…and if we cleansed a particular ring, what remains of the Count’s power might be exorcised and planted in hell, too. It would become just an ordinary ring, if it is not already. Jonathan’s soul need never be displaced by a foul mind ever again,” Van Helsing agreed. “I will work on finding the correct passage in my books before tonight. We can perform a ritual with due haste and diligence. I glimpsed one that could benefit us, but there was so much to do before last night. It was not applicable before today.”

Mina felt a terror grip her for an instant, but it was well concealed. Events were moving forward so quickly. Part of her didn’t want that ring cleansed; it could be used in various ways. As though to hide such thoughts from both herself and them, Mina offered her own ideas.

“We must consign Lucy’s earthly remains to the fire, as well,” she solemnly added. “If the Count burned by day, would it not be best for her peace if she were burned as well, and by night?”

“Yes, that could be so,” Van Helsing agreed. “My deadline for study is tonight; if I fail, then tomorrow night. You need only struggle against that tenacious servant for a little while longer, Jonathan.”

Jonathan remained quiet on the subject, and Seward wondered why. Instead of merely returning to the cell and distracting himself with compounding worries, he instead gave him the option of turning down his next suggestion. 

Seward wanted Jonathan to participate, after he’d spent so long not being allowed any thoughts of his own. It could be beneficial to his outlook. “Would you like to be there for the ritual, Jonathan? Not in the cell, but here? Do you feel as though he would compel you to stop us?”

Jonathan didn’t know if he could be separated from this constant revolting companion and survive. He feared the offered water would injure _him_ in some manner. However, accepting the offer of holy water for tonight’s ritual sounded like a good first step to not being afraid anymore.

Despite a shudder within that was not his own, he quietly accepted; as the other seethed, he was gradually getting better at not showing it outwardly. To Seward, he inclined his head in agreement. 

It wouldn’t do to make anyone think that he himself had found the offer repugnant. He knew he was fortunate enough to be around those that might understand an alien expression crossing his face, but he still didn’t want to be bothersome. At last, certain he was free to speak, he answered them. “My mind has been soundly wounded, but I trust this will trounce him?”

“Yes, that may be so,” Van Helsing carefully said.

There was a thankfulness that the thing wasn’t currently in direct communication with Jonathan and babbling or screaming profanities, for he knew that he would be privy to some decidedly vulgar imagery in reply to these plans if that were so.

He had an epiphany, then. The majority of the discomfort was not his own. The servant disliked the other man for his access to the means by which it could be harmed or destroyed. Jonathan wondered if the servant would allow him to let the glass even touch his lips.

With all the seriousness such a topic caused in him, he nodded firmly. “My answer to you is yes. I will accept the offered holy water tonight, even as I feel the servant would influence my actions, to save its own self. With the remnant…would the water harm me as it did the Count?”

“Isn’t it worth it to wash the poison from your soul? Even if that should be so?” Van Helsing countered in lieu of an answer.

“Yes. Indeed it is. Never think I meant otherwise,” Jonathan adamantly agreed. “As Dr. Seward broached the idea, I will ask it openly of you. Might I please join you three tonight or tomorrow night, and drink the water in your presence? I shall remain unheard and unseen, while you attend to your other wholesome activities. They must appear to be parlour tricks to the untrained layman. Being possessed, I am in favour of such.” In a matter such as this, he felt that Van Helsing was the man to ask.

“That is a reasonable request. You shall be released to do this,” Van Helsing formally agreed., even as Seward gave a rueful chuckle. That was out of the way, then. “And I will aid the periodic occupation of your thoughts, while John sees to your husband’s,” he informed Mina. “Whenever I can be parted from my books, if you can stand to stare at a man ruining his eyes from constantly perusing text that is far too small for the human hand.” He saw her nod once to agree to this.

Jonathan moved to hug her, before he was gently tugged away by Seward; he had felt his hand waiting on his shoulder. Either it could be construed as the oddest chaperonage on record, or he was simply taking no chances with matters of safety. He recalled a similar posturing when he dared to touch Mina upon crying out in his cell.

Van Helsing stopped them as well, with a hand upon Jonathan’s arm. He had one last warning. “I advise you to avoid a communion with any spirits by your own choice. Do not attend a séance, or _you_ will be the medium without being given any say in the matter.” Or at least he guessed this could be the case.

He had read of such things as this, but not to the extent of Jonathan’s experiences.

There must be precautions taken around this man. “Your mind was usurped, and so you are open to the powers of darkness for a prolonged period. This is, perhaps, for the rest of your days. Such a wound will linger upon your soul even when you are a single entity again, without a foreign occupant.” If it were possible to separate them, would the solicitor’s soul attract demons? He had his questions, though he could not perform experiments.

“Of course,” Jonathan granted as everyone let go of him. He had no thought of attending such a fashionable event. Spiritualism was not his forte. He would not risk such matters even after he was safe.

“Four months in my care,” Seward whispered in Jonathan’s ear, as the Professor drew back again. “I know you must have entertained the question. You had yet to ask.”

“Four months,” Jonathan echoed. He could accept that as it all blurred in his head. “Two weeks to reach the castle due to minor mishaps and three weeks by sea on the _Demeter_. Seven days in the castle upon my first arrival, as myself. I was broken down and remade into that sorry state on a Sunday." He couldn’t say the length of time following that, though.

He was trying to account for what was left. “The days all run together. Mania made it feel as though time was fleeting; desperation at the loss of his touch when I was in the asylum, made it feel as though it dragged on for eons. Madness does take its toll.”

Mina spoke up, then. “Jonathan, you were called away to attend to the Count's business three weeks after our marriage. That will pin it down for you best.” She shook her head. “I received one genuine letter to chart that progress prior to the forgery from Prague…after the fifth day you were with him.”

So close to the time he had been altered, she realised. “Jonathan, you were lost to his will for approximately eight months in total,” Mina softly informed him. At his distressed expression, all she could do was hold him gently when he clutched her arm. She didn’t let go herself until he opted to do so. She made certain he was strong enough.

“I thought it was shorter,” Jonathan marvelled. He had lost so much time with her. He had lost so much time in general, in which he could have done so many other things. The servant only revelled within him; he reviled it further for stealing his life for the Count’s admiration. He allowed Mina to lead him back to the bench as he felt himself growing weak at the news.

Mina quietly took off the jacket Seward had given to her, and put it around Jonathan’s shoulders. At the question in his eyes, she sought to explain herself. “I felt you needed it more than me. You’ve had more and deeper shocks for a prolonged period than I have. I was only bitten. Though an east wind blows through me, it is easy to endure for but a few minutes more.” She looked at him carefully. “You have had a further upset. Remain seated."

He did as he was told. Her wrist was caught within a steely grip before she could remove her hand. There was a particular slyness to Jonathan’s eyes as he met her own. Something passed between them, though she knew it to be the servant’s presence; it seemed the other relished being informed of the length of its rule, and wished to thank her. By the time he blinked, it had swiftly passed from view; he looked at her arm, and let go.

She let the moment pass; she chose not to tell, but insisted to herself Jonathan must surely suspect. He looked flummoxed, and then there was resolve. Her smile was sad as she looked back at the Weston crypt. “His will was far too great for the likes of us.” Jonathan cautiously reached over and squeezed her hand, so light upon his shoulder. It was gentle and filled with sympathy, unlike before. It was her husband’s touch again.

“While I find that an odd way to put it, I would listen to her,” Seward urged once he knew it was safe. He had sensed something was off, and had planned to intervene before the mood relaxed again. He was tense after the debacle in Lucy’s tomb. He judged that it would be easier for Jonathan to just return the jacket to him when he was dropped off in his cell, than for Seward to go out of his way during his rounds and remember to get it back.

Jonathan noticed her quiet shivers despite her protestations of adequate temperatures, and drew her down to sit with him on the bench. He would not have her suffering for the servant’s nighttime actions; he had basically kidnapped and delivered her to the Count when it got right down to it. It didn’t matter that she had been bitten, for she never deserved that cross to bear.

Then, once certain of his welcome, he draped himself about her. Such had been their custom on frostier days at the beginning of their courtship. “It is me who keeps you warm; you know that. I am not him; I am your husband; you are safe. I am focusing on it just being me that sees to this, no matter what he does to overpower me.” Jonathan murmured in her ear. There was indeed an air of great and total concentration about him. He warmed her arms with himself, in a swift bear hug.

He would have given her back the jacket, but saw it was not something to be accepted in this position.

She chuckled, and patted his arm, even as he huffed a small laugh against the back of her neck. It was a pity he could not do the same for her bare feet, and thereby aid her further. She felt him shudder, and looked with concern. Indeed, there was a mental battle, but it looked he was still on top. An odd disappointment was insidiously growing in her thoughts, but was easily hidden.

“You have a lot to sort through,” Seward offered. Jonathan was only being courteous, in defiance of all he had been forced to do. This was a private moment between man and wife, and should not be prevented if his behaviour relayed that he was himself.

He waited until he had Jonathan’s attention again, before he continued. “If you cannot sleep at any particular time that you so desire, let me know. I’ll prescribe a sleeping draught, or—or give you a tincture of laudanum for one or two nights. Or days. Whichever hour you prefer to attempt to lay down your weary head.”

"I think I should prefer to sleep of my own accord, on my own terms, Dr. Seward,” Jonathan replied with a tight smile. He was particular about this desire. “Free of anything which could leave me beside myself, you understand.” He didn’t want to give that servant any advantages. He glanced to Mina. “Better?” He softly inquired as he felt her relax against his chest. He knew they couldn’t stay like this, just as well as she did.

“Much,” she answered. She moved within his arms until she was facing him. She put her head upon his shoulder, and hesitated. It felt like she was laying the groundwork for more, though she could not say what in particular. Was it to be a bite she would deliver? Should there be a lie to forge a darker path? She could not say until she had more time alone with him. She must lead him along the winding way, and see which mind was best.

Mina was reluctant to part from his touch, but knew that she must. He sensed she was going to go. Finally, he lowered his arms, and so she drew away.

“I do,” Seward noted. He did understand the reluctance to lower the boundaries around anything that could contain the servant’s bile. He wouldn’t press the issue.

“No,” Mina suddenly urged, before Jonathan could be pulled away. “Might the two of you allow us a private moment? We must talk.” She smiled, as though the time out here had been practically a holiday, just to see their reactions. Her smile changed so she might tease her friend. “My feet won’t be any colder by a ten minute delay, John!"

“We won’t be any further than beside Lucy’s crypt, if you don’t go beyond the edge of the gate over there,” Seward assured them after a short deliberation. They wouldn’t listen in, but they could intervene should it become necessary.

Jonathan and Mina moved quietly away from their former seat, as they were temporarily given privacy. “Why did you scream in such a way for me, Jonathan? It sounded as though just to speak, your soul was being torn apart and into tatters.” A second later, Mina continued with something else she had wondered. “ _Was_ it you, Jonathan, or—or was it what he made of you that sought to torment what you had once been?”

“I can’t say,” Jonathan replied as they walked a short distance. “Not because I am not allowed with that one inside my head…but because I don’t know. There was me, and I was smothered, as I said,” he began to try to explain. He saw encouragement in her eyes when he almost gave up. She cared. He saw that, though he was mildly suspicious of her; if he felt like this, she must surely have a remnant of the bite, as well.

“There was that creature, who wanted lives.” It might still want them, though he, presently, did not. He had yet to put it to the test. “Sometimes I was also almost him and he was behaving like me, and it was all so mixed up that I didn’t know who I was, or what I wanted or if I had always served or not. He is and was separate from me in his and my goals. Am…am I making any sense, Mina?”

Mina didn’t think so at first; it took a moment to untangle his thought process, though it was an easy act when she put her mind to the task. "You almost mistake me for a woman bred into money with little to ponder, and we know each other better than that. Do we not? I understood the Professor's theories, just as well as you. It’s a unique problem to have, but yes. You are making sense. I saw when you were another; I see you as you are,” Mina confirmed.

He bit his lip, struggling to put it all into a proper order. “Who was I? That was the question, and I—I think the man who screamed your name was two. There was me, in my surprise, in the last few rays of daylight. I said your name the first time in recognition. I thought you to be a mirage, a delusion, until I saw Dr. Seward with you and knew it to be true. You were an oasis in the desert of my delusions. I wanted to stay. I wanted to speak. I wanted to touch you.”

His hand stretched out, and almost touched her hair. “I don’t know if I made contact with you or not. We might have,” he softly explained.

“That man I held in my arms, it _was_ you,” Mina insisted.

“Yes,” Jonathan confirmed. “I was outside and saw you, as I walked in an astral manner; the servant and my body were within the cell. It is just as the Professor implied. As the sun sank, the servant was stronger than the man within. It never mattered what I said or did, for I could not escape those confines, that bondage, that prison within a prison. He always had the upper hand.”

“You went away so quickly,” Mina remembered. Her fingers touched his cheek, before she moved away again. “You denied knowing me, and believed it was all a trick. I had to go, when you grew wild.” She could recall every glint in his eye, every mannerism, and every word spoken after he changed.

Jonathan slowly shook his head. “I...ricocheted back to my prison. It’s like I was trapped inside the deepest cavern, and unable to find a candle or a lantern or a light of any sort to guide my way out from the labyrinthine passages. Deep in the darkest night, I heard you, and your voice was my guide,” he murmured at last. His hands were shaking as he rubbed his face. The other had seemingly retreated, to his joy. It relished anger, not pleasure; not the softer emotions.

When he felt steady enough to continue, his words emerged as a whisper. It wouldn’t come out louder than that; it was as though it must be a secret from all others. He hadn’t meant it to be such; not to Mina. He felt a bit shameful when she was forced to lean closer to hear him.

Jonathan gave her a slight smile, with tears in his eyes. “There was nobody to take my hand, and pull me out of the quagmire. I—I had no guidebook. I just _barely_ held on so that I might speak in those sessions of mesmerism, though in truth I was exhausted throughout my very essence. No. I wasn’t really holding on. Not if that stranger continued to wear my face.”

“I’m so sorry you had to suffer that,” Mina sighed. Everything felt like a lie; every touch a fabrication, while she secretly felt otherwise. The greater part of her did feel as though she were troubled by these confessions, and loved Jonathan with all of her heart. She sought to speak as though she was not tainted; that persona, that nature, had increased in increments while John had seen to saving Jonathan.

She squeezed his arm until he gave her his full attention once more. “You were strong enough to survive his worst and come out the other side as sane as you are. Your soul did not shrivel in the crypt when the servant made his attack. Remember that when these devils seek to ruin you in the night. Remember that, should the nightmares come.”

She wanted to tell him not to struggle, if he felt as she did. She wanted to tell him not to fight. She wanted to tell him that something of her desired for him to give in, and accompany her and bring the dark ones back to their lives.

She didn’t. Until she looked towards where Jonathan had previously been seated, and saw that the signet ring was upon the ground. Mina glanced furtively back towards John; she saw more of the handkerchief was hanging out of his back pocket than previously.

Seward’s watch was also on the ground; it still ticked. How fortuitous for them, she mused as she lifted up both. She felt an unholy giddiness well up inside her; when she presented the ring for Jonathan’s edification, she saw the other one’s personality pass through his features. Diabolical glee was writ upon them. She lost herself in thoughts and sensations that should have died with the Count.

Jonathan blinked quickly, feeling an odd wrenching; before he could turn and give a shout or move, the other one was there. Jonathan closed his eyes, and soaked up the feeling that _the Count_ had come by and laid a hand upon his brow and both his and Mina’s hearts. Something of the servant subtly came to the forefront, and seized hold of him. It was private knowledge; it was exquisite. He could tell Mina felt the same as he opened his eyes.

Mina moved to face away; a small smile was on her face, as though they shared a hilarious secret. He positioned a hand to stroke her hair, knowing the onlookers may only see an intimacy of a married couple long separated. He was being gentler than when he had wrenched the ring from her earlier. He lowered his head towards her ear. “You would become his kin when I cannot; his soul should be within _me_.” He would worship her body, whatever became of her.

Theirs was a gentle dance of movements meant to dissemble and obfuscate.

Jonathan put a hand on Mina’s hip, and slowly turned her around. He lowered his face to her neck then stopped, breathing softly against her skin. Mina gave a shiver of pleasure; he wanted to open his mouth and put blunt teeth against her veins. To the men a short distance away, it would appear to be a heartfelt embrace. It was only that to them, and nothing more.

If they neared the couple, the choreography in their movements, the lies would grow evident.

It was a symphony of false harmony and beauty meant to speak of a couple reunited. Each subtle glance and word was another note in the chords that would sing of their actual plight, and potential damnation should the wrong half of them win.

It was for their view; their benefit; their mistaken pleasure that they went through these motions.

If he opened his mouth and bit down, even if he was not as his Master had been, he would still rouse suspicions. Their harmony would be shattered. They would be discovered. They would be thwarted. They would be separated and watched, and all their future dreams to bring the Master back would be cast aside.

If the Master had commanded it in any form, he would have killed her last night. Both understood this.

He let go of her; she slowly moved back a step, still facing him with a seductive grin. She stroked his cheek. “Soon,” she promised, eyes bright in near rapture.

Jonathan’s grin grew as large as when he had been sent to collect her from bed at the behest of his Master. He covered that as he lowered himself to kiss her hand; another masterstroke in their presumed sonata, so the others would see him as reluctant to part from her side. He murmured his words against her skin; they would be clear for her, so close. “It will be a pleasure to serve you, my lady.”

He would call her Mistress. That good one within him would wither and die as he claimed this woman. 

She moved to touch a finger to her lips as he pulled back slightly. Tell no one; reveal nothing of yourself, she silently bid him by her action.

Tell no one of their corruption as it sought to burrow itself ever deeper within their souls when they were those other two. Tell no one, that he and her could become as they rightfully should be by nightfall. Do not give himself away with impatience; with bloodlust. He inclined his head. The agreement was made. 

“It would be a pleasure to be served by you, my husband,” Mina replied almost regally. In truth, she could not call him Jonathan. This wasn’t him, just as she was not herself. If they slipped up, their eyes would reveal the truth to the others. They would not be discovered. No, they would find another way.

She put a fingertip to his lips this time as he opened his mouth, smiling secretively. It was turned into a gentle caress of his throat. “Hide again. Plan. Find strength tucked away, and we will soon be together in exquisite and everlasting joy. We shall blend in with the sheep for now; the elect must be forever on their guard.”

The words were familiar to her, even as they thrummed within her soul. The joy originally came from Lucy’s mouth in her new state of undeath. She had said such wondrous things. The Count had provided the last, in his wisdom, which had followed that beauteous appearance.

Jonathan mulled over the offer further, and still found it acceptable. His Master had not found time to stretch across the barrier between life and death; she would be different. If his Master were reborn through her, in her image, the pleasure would only surge within his veins. And if he were only her servant, he would be just as pleased.

Either way, the Master would win; _they_ would win.

Mina leaned closer, and her eyes were mesmerising; passion was in abundance. The nascent ability had yet to work for more than an instant. If she accepted the night and all it held dear, then she would find herself achieving her true potential. His hands clasped to hers, and the smile on his face gradually became more private; more intimate.

“Wake,” Mina urged as she leaned one hand against his chest. “As him. Just for now, for them. Be the other Jonathan for a time, as I become that softer Mina. Do not fret. You will be my favoured one, my husband.”

The words echoed inside his head, and sparked that change between viewpoints, between ideas, between minds. He didn't resist this time; he didn't fight to seize power; caged he might soon be, but the padlock was loose and the path was clear enough. The latch was feeble. Just shove aside an ignorant fool, and he could have his body.

His time would come.

The true self of Jonathan returned, feeling as though he had lost something important. He blinked and looked around. He gazed into the middle distance, frowning, as he struggled to piece something together. By his manner, he looked as though he had forgotten some minor inconvenience. It was like he had left the kettle to boil over, or a door unlocked. He couldn’t explain it.

Had he said something? Had she? Was there something he had forgotten? Her expression was inscrutable to him, before it became gentle.

“No,” Mina smiled as if in answer to his thoughts. “All is well.” She could have revelled in her power over him. Soon enough, though, the moment would arrive in which she would choose. Soon enough she would slake the thirst for human blood. Her smile was secretive. “You look peaked.”

It was half meant for the one within him, in her momentary gaiety. It was her entreating to him to hold off on forcing Jonathan to lose his mind, if such was ever his intent. “Patience, dear,” she continued. “You will be fine.”

“I suppose I must look so after events,” Jonathan pondered. Suddenly, he noticed she was in a perfect bloom of health, with rosy cheeks. It was more than before, more than when they had been seated together, and almost worried him for reasons he could not say.

And then she was his Mina again, and all was well. Her smile was suddenly as it always was; her complexion was fair and normal for one that had survived the bite of a vampire. “Oh. Yes. I suppose I must go. I fear I lost the thread of our conversation earlier.” The asylum beckoned, though he felt a pressing need to remain at her side.

Jonathan reached forward and kissed her hand gently; gallantly. He felt a momentary intensity flare within him that desired to take her, before it was gone. He presumed it was for missing her; he didn’t feel the curl of victory pass through his core. 

“Until tonight,” they promised each other in unison. If there was a touch of the macabre coursing beneath their words, or a thrill of unholiness, neither paid it any mind.

They felt renewed, as though a fruitful bargain had been made, even as they struggled with a sense of uneasiness.

Jonathan returned to Seward’s side, quietly staring at the ground. A particular thought kept sliding away whenever he tried to bring it to mind. It felt important. It was gradually becoming more of a nuisance that he couldn’t seem to shake. He snapped out of it and glanced to Seward with an air of dark mischief before it faded.

“Jonathan?” Seward prompted, as the man stared blankly again in Mina’s direction. “Are you quite all right?” And what was he clasping so tightly?

“Hmm? All is well,” Jonathan distractedly murmured as he shook his head. It felt like the proper answer; actually, it felt like he was stepping out of the densest fog bank in the region when it came to how addled he was behaving. Jonathan glanced down in uncertainty. He had somehow come into possession of Seward’s watch, had he not? He had almost put it into his own pocket, for he was distracted.

He held the watch up for Seward, and pressed it into his hand. “I was forgetting this! It fell from your pocket—Mina and I retrieved it. I believe the chain broke, but the watch itself did not.” He smiled as he vaguely gestured to the path where it had been found, even as he gave it back to the man.

Seward thanked him quietly and pocketed it again. He looked in the direction Mina and the Professor had gone. He felt he had just cause to doubt the veracity of that statement.

Something more was wrong. All could not possibly be well. He must take the man somewhere quiet, and see if he could pin his concerns down.

He had no idea how to help Jonathan. Metaphysics were beyond him, until this incident. He would offer the only comfort he could, by proving to Jonathan that he himself was not possibly evil incarnate. Simultaneously, Seward’s worry would not be assuaged. Jonathan had been controlled; he had been ill-used; he had been forced to attack him until that glorious intervention. “Here,” Seward said as he reached into his waistcoat pocket.

It was the Bible he had clutched as he and the Professor had warded off the Count. “I know you’re concerned. Tell me if it burns,” Seward added. “Touch it. Hold it.”

Jonathan peered at it with suspicion, before he relaxed. “It doesn’t burn my eyes,” he warily revealed. As though expecting a higher power to smite him down for his audacity, he delicately poked it before touching it with a firmer hand. He braced himself, feeling the other drawing back until he almost didn’t sense him anymore.

Some of the strangeness that dogged his thoughts went missing with an abruptness that left him feeling off kilter. 

He placed both hands firmly against the cross on the cover, hysterically having the opinion that he must be doing this all wrong. However, it would have harmed the Count instantaneously, wouldn’t it? “There is no pain,” he said, almost desperately. It had only rendered his dreadful occupant silent, and made him retreat, he was glad to sense.

“Let’s walk. I have a quiet spot beyond the asylum,” Seward offered.

Jonathan sought to return Seward’s Bible to him; Seward shook his head. “Prove to yourself it’s not a fluke. Prove to yourself that it isn’t slower to sense sin on a person than it is on a vampire.” The mind worked in mysterious ways, and Seward knew that that idea might strike him. “Just give it another minute; yes, hold it tightly like that.”

Jonathan shoved it roughly back into his hands before that much time had passed, though even as he let go he looked confused as to why he was doing so. Unafraid, Seward encouraged him to take his arm as he led the way. “Do you want my cross?” He lightly asked him.

Jonathan chuckled sheepishly, and denied the offer.

They would walk to a peaceful location that few knew about. Seward hadn’t really told anybody about it yet, lest they shatter the tranquility of nature. He anticipated someone would seek him out there for matters both business and personal if he did. He hadn’t found time in the midst of the crisis with Lucy for a break.

He had never had the chance to show the beauty of it to Lucy at all. Looking at the watch Jonathan had recovered made him remember it, as it was a present from her mother. His patients had taken up his time for too long. He had wanted to show her around while they planned their wedding. He had hoped she would enjoy the beauty. He knew she would have adored a spell away from her mother’s inquiries as to the date of their nuptials.

That day would never come. He tried to stop thinking of that.

How would Jonathan fare there? Would anything unnatural come creeping to the forefront again?


	5. Chapter 5

The early morning sunlight was unhampered by an overcast sky. It reflected off the pond that was at the midway point between the asylum and the graveyard. It was a private place, which Seward had found. Few of his staff knew about it.

Seward had determined that Jonathan needed to be away from Van Helsing and his questions; they would also be expected at the asylum, and so he was delaying their return. He first entertained himself with skipping stones across the surface of the pond, while Jonathan managed to get whatever was running just under the surface settled.

Or as well as could be expected, with the Count’s shadow looming over their lives for a bit longer. That attempted resurrection in the crypt wouldn’t leave his mind. Mina would have retreated to her rooms with the Professor by now, in the time it had taken them to get here. She would be tidying up; she would be warmer, with his scarf around her neck. The attendants would only send out a search party at John’s instructions.

They had time enough. Seward rolled his eyes as one stone sank straight to the bottom after taking out a lily pad. He passed a smoother stone to Jonathan. Before, he might have worried about being struck by an emotionally unstable madman. He supposed he was beginning to accept particular matters. And, possibly, he trusted him to warn him of any potential problems.

If that other entity rose up, he was confident he could see it in his eyes.

Jonathan glanced down at the stone, turning it over in his fingers in quiet contemplation. He considered pouring all of his frustrations into it; he let it loose before he became too fretful of his future. It went skipping wildly until it slammed into the mud on the other side of the bank. When he sighed, Seward handed him another stone; he tried again, and it went gently across.

Seward studied Jonathan’s profile while he was looking away. Jonathan’s moorings had been ripped asunder. His mind must still be rebounding, even without the continued presence of the thing inside him. Seward wasn’t certain how to monitor that, aside from the occasional inquiry.

“Very good,” Seward murmured. “Lucy was adept at things like this, though I never brought her. I should have. She…she rarely missed her goal.” He thought of her spirit, seeking to aid Jonathan in reclaiming his soul from a monstrous being; he thought of the creature that had to be put down, which wasn’t her. She would be a painful topic for a time.

Jonathan understood the need to talk; he had proven that when he was so muddled, before he left the crypt. “I would imagine she was,” he quietly responded. “At many things.” She was spectacular when it came to her minor tangle with the servant. He looked back only when Seward patted his shoulder.

She did her best to help him, was Jonathan’s unspoken meaning. She did her best at shocking him like a bolt of electricity sent from Heaven itself, so that when he lost his fight again, Seward was close enough behind to try. He had tried to pull Jonathan’s sinking self from that wretched spiritual quicksand, before Lucy had gone into action. They were a good team, even if one party was deceased. “I _am_ sorry for your loss, Dr. Seward. I know you were to be married.”

Seward knew that the attendants spoke of him behind his back; he also knew that when he was still calling him Thirty-Four, Jonathan was particularly receptive to anything he could glean about his surroundings; especially if he were calmer and placed in a straitjacket. It was only natural to listen for any news regarding him, so this knowledge did not surprise him.

“You were not to blame, Jonathan,” he assured him at last, even as he removed his hand from the man’s shoulder. “You couldn’t say what was occurring before our very eyes; the servant thinks in a different way, and right and wrong do not factor into the equation the way I would judge it. It doesn’t matter if it was day or night, for he would not have felt it was something to warn us about.”

“The feeling of sorrow remains. Even if it is not something I had control over, there is empathy,” Jonathan said hesitantly. There was guilt from something else, but he wasn’t sure what. He was nervous about something yet to come, and it was not the ritual. Seward’s arm cautiously went around his shoulder, which helped to calm him, as Jonathan became mildly distressed. Abandoning their short-lived entertainment, they began to walk.

Jonathan was dwelling in a quiet state of perpetual anxiety, which was gradually beginning to subside. Seward could read the expression on his face, and was quick to assure him of certain matters. “We’ll get your life back yet,” he promised him. He steered them to a quiet seat beneath a tree, where they could contemplate nature to Jonathan’s satisfaction for a few more minutes.

Wild roses twisted here and there, clumped together; they had become overgrown and almost unsightly when left to their own devices. As the two men moved to a natural patch that was clear, they were careful to avoid the thickest portion as a thinner line of thorny branches stretched out. Having evaded a vampire’s fangs, neither was fond of the thought of drawing blood from pointed thorns.

“I would give one of these to Mina, but I feel it would not be appreciated as of yet,” Jonathan softly guessed. They must be themselves when they exchanged trinkets of any sort. His sleeve was temporarily caught in the grip of thorns, as it seemed they were not so clear as they had believed; Seward pulled him free, and used a stick to shove the solitary piece further from him.

“My housekeeper knows of better ones, should you ever come to think otherwise,” Seward offered. “These are too wild and unruly to touch.”

“Well, so was I; so I could become again if we are unlucky enough that my more violent opponent chooses to surge upwards and onwards,” Jonathan argued with a slight chuckle.

The sound had contained an edge of melancholy to it; Seward waited until the look faded, as well, before he spoke further. “We _will_ fix that, Jonathan. I don’t know how yet, but we will,” Seward promised. He caught a flicker of arrogance that sought to challenge him on that statement, and guessed the other was intruding; he held the gaze until Jonathan succeeded in quashing that other voice again.

Jonathan was uncertain as to Seward’s confidence; the servant always tried to exacerbate his doubts. He forced himself to study the sky. Eventually, he relaxed. To Jonathan, until he looked away, he could imagine that the clouds twisted into the shape of a swarm of bats. He shook his head; that was something tucked in that had no validity. No; they were only clouds, and he would soon be walking back to that cell to be shut away for a time.

There was a dark magic in the world that could take a man and mold within him another mind; another creature that coveted death and yearned for small lives in recompense. The spell had been broken, and the greater monster had been slain, but his hound, his slave lived on inside a solicitor’s skull. Everything should go back to the way it had been, but such was not to be. He sighed; this was nature he witnessed, blowing clouds into other shapes that only he could see.

He focused again, and struggled against the servant. He was disappointed by his findings. Here and there, he saw a fang; a boat as large as the _Demeter_ ; the bars of a cell; something else, which might be a coffin. His mind was presently shoved into far more unpleasant and obvious imaginings.

Jonathan almost broke into hysterical and loud guffaws at a perceived law book made manifest among those shapes. He restrained the impulse with a great effort, but opted to keep that imagining his very own. It was the most personal of them. A small noise did escape, but the doctor did not grow cross with him, even though he couldn’t understand.

“You feel a bit better now, the further we get from the graveyard, do you not?” Seward wondered. There was a quiet nod for an answer. What was it like to have a soul held hostage? What would that truly do to a man in the end, when freedom was restored without reservation? 

“What are the prospects for a solicitor turned madman who has returned to sanity? Once I am not of a dual nature?” Jonathan quietly asked. “Who would ever believe the cause, or that I was now reformed? How would I explain my missing time?” Eight months without a client was not a short sabbatical.

Seward took that as an interesting challenge. “I could say that I temporarily employed you to help me with expanding my facilities. While you are wondrous at your profession, you couldn’t find a suitable abode for madmen that wouldn’t have fallen upon my ears. As for your own accommodations, you stayed with me so that we could strategise, and…reorganise certain matters in your life.”

Jonathan shrugged and shook his head. “I took an excursion to India following this, and thereby will account for the extra months, if necessary. And that would partially be true for current events, as I have gone to travel. I should just…avoid all talk of zoophagy, and you provide the references and false documentation?”

“Of course,” Seward agreed softly. “The Professor could add his good word, too.” He suddenly wondered something else. It almost sounded humdrum in comparison to the chaos of recent days. “Did Mina tell very many you were missing, or where you went?”

It was possible, as at the last they had been speaking quietly together as though they were in the midst of a conference, or confiding secrets to one another. It was not his place to ask.

Picking up the pieces was decidedly complicated, Jonathan found. “I don’t think so.” No, he was confident. Firmly, he added, “She wouldn’t have told.” There was something he should be telling about her, wasn’t there? Something kept drifting away, and he was not in a good place to try to figure it out yet.

“Then it may not be as hard to reclaim your life as you feel it will be, “ Seward replied. He watched him carefully. “How does it truly feel to be freed of him?” Were they? No, but Jonathan was mostly back on top. Perhaps it was a rhetorical question, which shouldn’t have been asked. Perhaps it tempted fate too much. “How might it feel?”

Was it cruel to ask? It felt like it was his duty to be aware of certain things as his doctor, and they were this far along. He thought Jonathan wouldn’t answer, for the other man glanced away quickly. Jonathan’s eyes turned to the asylum in the distance, as though it was the safest place in the entire world. Perhaps it was, Seward realised. It had become a makeshift home, though that may have been more for the slave. One had been almost able to tell the time by its escape attempts.

Finally, Jonathan locked eyes with him as though coming to a conclusion. He was choosing his words carefully. Even if the other was still there, it was incredible to be in control. It was enervating to be free to think. His emotions almost got the better of him. “No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be,” Jonathan slowly replied with tears in his eyes.

He looked away and drew a shaky breath. “It is like reaching the top of a mountain after toiling away for God knows how long at a hopeless goal. I hope I truly do remain myself from now, and through tonight. The night is still within me; I long for the sweetness of day. I, myself, do not long for the Count’s shadow.” He stared at the shadows while he composed himself. He felt oddly raw.

Those shadows were natural. They were cast by foliage; they were trees; they were birds flying overhead. Was that enough for Seward to understand how it would feel to be freed of those chains?

“Those are the only words I have left for the experience, Dr. Seward. It’s like…like a thorn is at long last being pulled from an infected wound, and I will have a very long while yet before I heal. There will be deep scars if ever I do, as it was trapped in there for so very long. I may be scared of things that should not be, such as that other...and things that live beyond the veil of death and beyond reason in the dark.”

He might scream at the first natural bat he saw in his vicinity; he might not. He didn’t like being so uncertain.

“Poetic and a proper summary,” Seward mused kindly. What a gruesome thought some of that was, though. “You have hidden depths,” he praised with a smile. The statement seemed to embarrass him; Jonathan looked furtively away, as though he had something to hide. “You do. Every solicitor I have ever known has not been so,” he insisted. They had been greedy misers that sought to cheat him, until he found an honest one. “And heal you shall, once we’ve removed that last root. I want you to focus on resting once we return to the asylum.”

He saw a reticence cross Jonathan’s face. “What is it?”

Did Jonathan trust him enough to divulge particular matters? He found that he did. “I loved him,” he whispered, fearful of being judged. “Or—or I thought I did, and the leftover servant within barters to conceal and keep it from you, when I’m not paying attention. It comes up to the surface like a natural spring,” he confessed. “There is more. I don’t know what it is, but I know there is. Will you allow me to speak as it comes to me? It might not make sense.”

Seward gestured for him to continue; he remained silent, knowing that if he interrupted now, this whole excursion would be for naught. Jonathan may never trust him again if he intruded.

"I... no, he.... the other, he loved him...." Jonathan repeated the last with confusion punctuated by desperately stirred emotion. Should he feel anything but loathing for him? “Deeply. No; _he_ loved him. The one that used my body loved him. I understand this, hard though it is to keep that in sight as something keeps bleeding into me.”

He turned back to Seward, confusion dominant upon his face. “He loved him more than Mina. He adored him more than life. I almost felt as though it was I that worshipped him. I would have died for him last night.”

Past tense; that was good, Seward deemed. It meant that the Count’s creature was a bit further back than earlier by his behaviours as well. Or so he hoped. “That wasn’t your idea, and I think you know that,” he granted. “We both know you would not have done so, were you yourself.”

The poor man’s mind was still recovering from that bondage, and the other one might be whispering enough to mire him down in further impressions.

Jonathan agreed with that assessment. If he was getting it off his chest now, and focusing on the way he had been, then so be it. He had to talk. Jonathan found himself staring into the overgrown grass as though that might have answers.

“The other one briefly tried to keep a second journal. There was some very purple prose in its depths, written in the wee hours of the morning and the dark of the night.” He laughed in a flurry of self-doubt at what might have been, as he ran his fingers through his wild hair. “Something of me lingered in a demon, and not merely the reverse!”

“I shudder to think what poetry, what verse, would have been unleashed upon the pages that you could have read with him in charge of my…inhibitions, or lack thereof, or his spasms of despair at the perception of his abandonment, had he followed through and continued,” Jonathan mused. “It—it could have helped you if you had it. It chronicled the hours he was weakest; his reaction to certain things; his quiet wrath when his passion was inflamed by the brides, and how the servant hid for fear of potentially being struck.”

The last had never occurred; that surprised him. He might have died in those halls, and nobody would have known.

“It told of all that he did _to_ me, and _with_ me and more, and what I was eager for him to do next; and the words he spoke of how we would cross the sea. What words I should speak to him, carefully rehearsed of all that he could become for his touch. And of what we would _do_ when we arrived on the shores of Whitby.” He shrugged. “In lesser terms, I kept track of the number of rats in the castle, as their amount dwindled. He seemed to wish to account for it all, and revel in the tally.”

He couldn’t help but say I at times, when he meant to say he. Seward wouldn’t fault him his confusion.

Jonathan shrugged, then. “The servant burned it, just like the first; however, not under duress. He could scarcely have concealed it; perhaps it was my attempt at defiance rising to the surface, though it’s doubtful. It--it could have helped you.” He barely understood those thoughts. He sensed the pride of that other self, for making him so inefficient.

Seward had been listening to all of this, and sought to halt these meanderings before they allowed the other to pounce on Jonathan’s soul. There was danger growing among the weeds. He tilted Jonathan’s face toward his, so that he could observe his reactions, and know to whom he was speaking. “I don’t care how many times I have to say it. I know that you need to hear it. _You_ didn’t instigate anything. You cannot change the past, no matter how I wish we could.”

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan softly conceded. With that, both men moved to stand, and walk at their own pace back.

“You can make choices now. You can think for yourself and you will be better at it without something else in your mind,” Seward added as they went. “You chose to sit there with me. You have chosen not to run loose, although I know you could overpower me if he tried. You are choosing to return to your room. It was not you making choices back in that crypt, until Lucy’s intervention…it was what was left inside your head, but not your heart or will. It was the voices; it was the servant.”

Seward hoped that after tonight, Jonathan would have a choice in everything he did with his life. After tonight, he would be free if they were lucky. Jonathan Harker had suffered enough. With these words unleashed into the aether, after tonight and following their efforts, let him begin to heal.

And yet, there was more to come; Seward could feel it. It felt like they were standing on the edge of something larger. He was glad they were not doing this in the asylum, where others might overhear. The Professor could have walked in on them, and ruined a particular avenue that was being crafted in Jonathan’s trust and surety with a look.

“I _choose_ to talk further. I _choose_ to make my own revelations in my own way.” His eyes widened, before he plowed on. “I think I took a life for him,” Jonathan whispered, voice barely audible. “Or…there are gaps, but I believe that I did.” He swallowed. “I didn’t really kill anyone, did I? On the _Demeter_?” Jonathan plaintively asked. He didn’t know what to do if the servant had actively participated.

“ _The Demeter_ was a ghost ship courtesy of him by the end, save for your presence; two bodies were found to be drained of blood, washed ashore with the tide a few days later; we both know the Count found his own way off, after feeding on the crew,” Seward carefully replied. “We both know how you were when you left it. Where is this coming from?”

“Was there blood covering the cargo hold? Was—was it slick with it, sir? Was he red with it?” Jonathan nervously went on. “It’s all tangled. I can’t tell if it might be a lie, or a delusion, or the truth.” He was afraid it must be real, and sickened that the other thing revelled in the idea of it.

“Not from what I’ve heard,” Seward frowned. “You were dressed the same when you came to me, so no. You were down there, searching for someone…the Count, I know now. You were crying you were abandoned after the ship ran aground. You wouldn’t be rescued, but by force.”

Seward thought back on Jonathan’s first few hours in a hospital, after he had been called up. He had been in a truly pitiable state, trying to hide from assistance. He had been clawing at the eyes of attendants, and begging to be let go so he could find ‘the Master’ before he was hurt. The exhaustion of hunger and his distress had led to a fainting spell that kept him down most of the way to the asylum; once Jonathan had revived and renewed his struggles, he was easily sedated.

Jonathan would remember the syringe; the sting; the loss of consciousness. Those had been familiar company at the beginning of his stay in the asylum, before they had settled into a familiar pattern.

Nobody had ever been able to calm him at first, and his symptoms had been so inconsistent that an initial diagnosis of brain fever was swiftly discarded. And then had come the wails of abandonment, and spikes of wrongness by night, and collapses by day. Truly, he had practically fallen into a coma by noon, only to rail abuse by night. “Tell me what you think you did,” Seward requested. He hoped that Jonathan was wrong.

“Please don’t tell anyone, but I—I thought I shoved a harpoon through first a man’s chest and then his belly, pinning him to the deck, and concluded the horror as I tossed him overboard,” Jonathan breathed. “I heard his last breath. I _felt_ him. I can see it all, and it’s painted so brightly. There was so much blood, Dr. Seward.” His voice was shaking, and his eyes were wide with fear.

Seward put his hands on Jonathan’s shoulders, trying to calm him before he got into enough of a state that he would be easy picking for the other’s attack. “Think, now. Did you know this before? Was it hidden or is it new? Can you tell? Wouldn’t that other one have relished in disgusting me with the tale back when you first arrived, if such were fact?” Seward asked.

He could tell that Jonathan had no idea, and was not quite as scared as he was before. “I won’t tell the Professor right now, but he and I can try to untangle what the Count left behind after we have done our business. How does that sound?”

Oh, Jonathan. Why would a Russian ship that was destined for Whitby be carrying a harpoon? Why wouldn’t it be out of the way so that none would be injured? From what he had read, such things had not been within its charter. That was Seward’s primary question.

“I thank you,” Jonathan replied softly as he gathered his wits about him. He wanted to say more, but didn’t know how to begin.

“Don’t worry about me thinking you to be evil. You aren’t,” Seward added.

Jonathan was still repentant, and sent a small smile Seward’s way. He felt the man was a good doctor, for listening to all that bothered him; even better for not casting aspersions as to his character. He looked back towards the asylum as they neared it, and paused mid-step. He gazed at Seward with what was almost an impish air. “My disappearance was noticed, Dr. Seward. Mr. Rowse is watching us from the window.”

Before Seward could stop him, the man jogged ahead of him. Seward presumed he was going to discover whatever punishment someone expected to dole out in recompense for his escape before showing the truth, but he still wondered. It was unnecessary for Jonathan to play mind games. It wasn’t like him, from what he had grown to learn. However, Jonathan was so newly freed that in his head, perhaps it was vital to becoming his own person again.

As he had said, it was a choice, and Jonathan should know his own desires. That didn’t mean Seward couldn’t be quietly confused.

Jonathan stopped near the window; he waved to the man to denote he saw him, too. He held out his arms, then, just to show that he was not carrying anything that could cause injury to anyone. Granted, that hadn’t stopped the servant from causing no end of grief as the Count’s agent. Rowse couldn’t know that things had changed.

“Hello, Mr. Rowse,” Jonathan cheerfully began once the other was outside. He bowed in greeting, though it was awkward as he felt the man might not realise why he was out here. Who would, aside from those in the know? The mischief fell away, and honesty came to the forefront. “I presume you’ve noticed the door to my cell was ajar, and that I had gone away again.”

Rowse nodded, just as confused as when he first spotted them approaching.

“I shall go quietly, without undue trouble,” Jonathan promised. He turned back to Seward. “Could you be certain to request that I not be placed in a straitjacket at any time? Even should the other take hold, I do not care for that. Even as I am now, I—I find that I shan’t be able to think like that. It’s too confining for me.” There was a despairing fear of it. It was more than simple discomfort. Those restrictions made him anxious.

“You will be free to move about as you wish, Jonathan; remember that. Remember what I’ve said,” Seward promised. “There will _not_ be any restraints.” He met Rowse’s befuddled eyes as the other man nodded in what was first grudging acceptance, before it seemed to sink in that Jonathan was behaving in a far more normal fashion than before. He really must explain to the poor orderly in some way that sounded sane.

“Come along, Harker,” Rowse urged as he saw how much the man was fretting about a chance of being bound. It was evident he was more used to calling him Thirty-Four, as he stumbled over the name momentarily. “You heard the doctor. I won’t put anythin’ on you today.”

“I know the way,” Jonathan reminded him with a curious smile. “I—shall not need a guide. I shall meet you there presently, provided you haven’t locked me out of my room.” When the attendant shook his head, Jonathan bounded away. He’d best get it over with, before he found himself unable to enter, and the wrong sort of person.

“No, Rowse. There’s no need to apologise,” Seward granted before the other man could speak. “This escape was out of everyone’s hands. Nobody could have stopped him. He just walked out, as Van Helsing and I thought a breakthrough was on the horizon for him.”

When he didn’t speak again, Rowse spoke up. “And…did the breakthrough come to him? He looked quieter. _Different_ , even if it’s daytime. He’d be sleepin’ ‘bout now, most days. Where’d he go, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“We went into the graveyard, to confront something from his past,” Seward cryptically replied. He didn’t know what else to say in response to the inquiry. All the potential replies that had a grain of truth to them would lead to the belief that he himself belonged in the asylum, and not governing the actions of those within.

“Yes, the breakthrough occurred,” he quietly mused at last. “I’m waiting to see what comes of it.”  
\--

Seward could hear Jonathan greeting another of the attendants before he rounded the corner, and then the soft but distinctive groan of the cell door opening wide. He had been briefly detained, as he sent Jenkins on another errand.

Seward followed Jonathan into his cell, and found the man quietly cleaning up the plates of food that had been left for the flies. Without a word, these were offered to Seward; with a quiet smile, Seward left the refuse in the hallway for someone to collect before he left the door ajar. They both hoped that desire was safely gone. He did appear more repulsed by the thought than desperate.

Jonathan directed Seward’s gaze to the stool, even as he shooed flies that had gathered on the sheets off of the bed; he had removed the borrowed jacket before instructions could be given. It was left waiting for its owner on the tiny piece of furniture, where it had been folded with great care. Seward draped it over his arm with a murmur of gratitude; this way it would not be mislaid upon his departure. He removed his leather gloves, and tucked them in the side pockets.

Rowse loitered half in the hall, half in the doorway, once it was opened further. He was confused by this turn of events, for the man was so calm. Instead of growing wild until he was bound and left, he was pouring his own water into the tin cup.

Jonathan glanced over to Rowse, with a small, apologetic grin, as he tried to wave the flies out the door. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve been, Mr. Rowse. Might you please take away that plate of meat and sugar? I no longer yearn for such things. He’s placed them beside your foot in the hall; be wary of moving to the left, as you close the door.”

“You don’t want the flies no more?” Rowse was slowly realising this was no ruse.

“No, no,” Jonathan distractedly answered. “You can swat them all you like, if you can get the stragglers to go to you.” He felt a growl of dismay from the servant, and ignored it. Seward pointed out the lone fork that had been forgotten as Rowse collected things. “I haven’t that wretched hunger anymore,” he explained to both of them. “Not for those. Without food going bad in here, perhaps they’ll leave.”

Seward squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder in approval; Jonathan merely nervously shrugged it away as he saw to putting the carafe elsewhere. He took no offense, for it appeared to be instinctive. “Thank you, Rowse,” he added as the man finished gathering everything around the door, and began to leave.

“I’ll never know what you did to fix ‘im, will I?” Rowse wondered futilely as he wandered off.

“He was _that one’s_ favourite, even when Rowse couldn’t catch him upon his escapes,” Jonathan admitted when he was gone, even as he tried to brush chalk off the wall with one hand. His tally of tiny lives he had consumed was strangely difficult to remove. “Such as anyone or anything could _be_ his favourite, any rate. Rowse never understood it, but he brought that one whatever he asked for.”

“Leave it for now,” Seward requested. He would only upset himself if he continued scrubbing at it like that. The chalk was in the cracks, and difficult to get to in this place.

Jonathan glanced down. His hands were shaking; looking away, he noted the tin cup was almost empty, even as he raised it to his lips.

Seward came closer, and gently removed it from his grasp quite easily as Jonathan merely stared at the contents. He put it on the counter, and was glad that Rowse had left. What would he have thought of such words as might be spoken of in here, with Jonathan’s guard down?

Jonathan moved to sit on the side of his rather bare bed. Without someone seeking mastery over him, it was quite strange. It would be even more different when his unwanted tenant was evicted from his body. He felt like he wanted to cry or rant in reaction to everything again, and struggled to contain it.

Seward was observant enough to notice. He saw the man struggling, and then losing the battle against tears, and sought to give him space. Unlike when it had happened in the crypt, this was more of a release than before. He placed his last dry handkerchief beside Jonathan, and moved to refill that tin cup.

He heard the telltale sniffles as Jonathan recovered himself. By the time he turned from slowly and deliberately pouring a specific quantity of water to prolong that time, Jonathan had managed to calm. He only required some sort of outlet. The only sign of it beyond the façade of propriety on Jonathan was a slight redness to the rims of his eyes, and nose. He held out the cup; the other man took it with a wan smile, and tucked the handkerchief beneath his legs.

When Jonathan finished taking a long drink, Seward spoke. “How fares your appetite?” In light of the removal of the plates, he hoped it was adequate.

The water filled Jonathan for the moment; he held up the cup, before he put it aside. “Perhaps later; this is taking up all the room inside me. I am quenched,” Jonathan apologetically answered. “I scarcely recall what normal meals are like, that do not constitute flies, and rats, with a spot of gruel and rye bread for variety. My table manners will have eroded, I fear.” While the last was a joke, he really couldn’t remember how regular food tasted.

He graphically recalled the taste of what the Count had offered him in the castle after his transformation, though. The first hint of that had struck him in the graveyard. He managed not to shudder. “I find no further malign influences lingering on my hunger, even with his presence, but I don’t know what to try. And I don’t know if there are any residual aspects of the previous excesses I was privy to,” Jonathan relayed.

“You should try a lighter fare, or your stomach will rebel after so long with raw and meager sustenance being given to it,” Seward advised. This wasn’t something he had ever considered happening when he began treating Jonathan. “I want you to tell someone when you grow hungry enough.”

“It may be that the Count’s dark influence spared me from a natural starvation I would surely have been afforded had these particular appetites been such under less auspicious circumstances,” Jonathan noted with disgust.

“I wouldn’t thank him for that,” Seward suggested as he moved to sit beside Jonathan.

“Nor I,” Jonathan agreed. “What if I fall back on old habits, goaded into it by the servant switching places again? What if I begin again? What if I can stomach only the flies lured in by a rancid plate of meat and sugar?” He knew something was still there, but was more of him wrong than it should be?

He was so scared of backsliding with that creature inside his head. What if his body was hollowed out, and became a shell for that thing? What if he began to want that even as himself? He was terrified that he might wake up from a nap or a blackout, and find the gruesome remains of something once alive upon his pillow and on his face.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Jonathan,” Seward replied; he touched Jonathan’s knee to regain his attention, when it was evident the man was preoccupied. “We will take each problem as they come. If we reach that one, we’ll just have to work at it from the angle that it’s a troublesome habit you must break. It could also be construed as poor etiquette in another’s home,” he jested.

Seward sighed. “And if it’s more than that, I will help you as I am able. The Professor will help you, even if you dislike him in some small measure. Mina will gladly help with your recovery in any way, I suspect. Jenkins and Rowse will implore you to end their suffering and let them live without insects buzzing about their heads.”

Jonathan laughed at the last. His solemn gaze softened as he accepted that he was not alone as he struggled to right his path. “Please never tell Mina of when I spoke of the _Demeter_.”

Seward was discreet; he sent the other man a look, for Jonathan knew he wouldn’t tell of private matters. He had promised. He hadn’t spoken of Lucy’s true cause of death to outsiders, now had he? He had not declared that she was risen briefly. He was not a fool. He also felt that Mina was strong enough to handle such knowledge, though he agreed that it would upset her at a delicate time of mourning.

Jonathan nodded as though this was wise, even if Seward hadn't said a thing; the implication was undoubtedly easy to understand. He thought he understood that strength of hers just as well. He noticed that Jenkins was watching him strangely through the little window, and shrugged. He saw Rowse pass, and Jenkins muttered ‘you were right!’

They hadn’t thought to close the door. “Is it so shocking for me to be calm?” Jonathan asked. He moved to poke his head into the hall, with a small grin. “You don’t want to share a drink with us, sirs? Perhaps you’re the crazy ones,” he jokingly called out to the men. They ignored him, and left them in peace once more.

Seward ignored that comment; Jonathan only sought to find his place again. It was not pithy, nor was it unwarranted; it was practically jaunty. It was surely a stunning state of affairs when the man renowned in the asylum for his mercurial state of mind actually listened to reason without duress, didn’t require a straitjacket, and waited patiently and quietly for Seward to tell him what else to do without attempting to escape just prior to walking into a cell of his own accord.

Or such was how it would appear to the attendants.

“I’ll leave you to your rest, Jonathan,” Seward informed him as he rose to leave.  
\--

Seward was endeavouring to ascertain what must be included in Jonathan’s file, so he might distract himself from their unique predicament. Previously, he had written the note that the man’s case was hopeless without a miracle. Having had that miraculous recovery, Seward was at a loss.

How _did_ one translate ‘soon to be exorcised of abominable influence which led to servitude towards a vampire, while still hosting the servant’ into scientific terms? The whole thing was lunacy! And yet, the patient suffered from the creature’s actions, and was mostly recovered as a result of his and the Professor’s own. He sat down his pen in frustration, before he glanced up to find the Professor himself entering the office.

Afraid that something was amiss, Seward rose to his feet. At the Professor’s expression, he shook his head. “Has something occurred? Has more befallen Jonathan?” Did Jonathan lose himself, find a way to escape by day, and return to Lucy’s mausoleum?

Van Helsing shook his head. “I am merely resting my eyes from pouring over texts for five minutes. Jonathan was well when I last checked with your attendants…but I felt that the newest development would merit extracting myself from the library, and stretching my legs,” he noted. “Your patient eats in a manner that is not zoophagus.”

“At last,” Seward practically crowed with satisfaction. He would be proud of the poor man if he managed to keep to that manner of eating. “He kept it down? Was he well?”

“He was fine,” Van Helsing replied after giving the question due attention. “He ate a simple bowl of beef broth. After half an hour had passed, I am informed that he requested a second from the kitchen with ample politeness as your housekeeper passed his cell. She was charmed by his conduct.”

He could include that in the files at the least. “Remission of zoophagy is probably as unique in case histories as the condition itself, wouldn’t you say?” Seward paused as he jotted down an amended statement of a pivotal breakthrough caused by particular emotional stimulation along with the combined efforts of a shock to jar loose both submerged sanity and hazy recollections.

He didn’t clarify the metaphysical components, or the source of the shock. It was best to leave it vague. He also chose to omit the lingering hosting of a foreign entity that had taken up residence in the man’s body. He slid the file to the Professor.

Van Helsing read it over. “Yes,” he confirmed. “It is best to leave it just so.” With that news delivered, he excused himself once more, retiring to the privacy of the asylum’s library. He would delve into further occult studies, while there was ample time remaining.

After casually questioning Seward—not enough to rouse his suspicions—he eventually realised the ring was not where it ought to be, and guessed where it may be.

She would merit watching, for he knew not where she had hidden it.


	6. Chapter 6

Jonathan had traversed an emotional gauntlet today, and in this hour, left to his own devices, he was exhausted. Even trying to return to a normal life and normal schedule, he found that he must sleep by day in order to recover. He had become accustomed to that in the castle, and it had continued with the servant’s stay here in the asylum.

To change back too quickly, could leave him ill. It was the same as taking in food too quickly following a fast, he supposed. He must go slowly, and adjust.

An odd and disquieting mood was soon upon him, now that he was alone in his thoughts. Yes, he wanted to be himself, but now recalled how he had presumed to imply sordid things to Mina. Or, rather, the servant had, through him; and, in contrast to his earlier manner of wanting everything out in the open if it must be, he had not spoken of _her_ or _his_ subtle insinuations with Seward.

 _How_ had that slipped his mind? How could he forget she had the ring again, and why did that make him feel so proud of her? He had become but a shadow of himself when in the Count’s power, and so must he have briefly become again, he realised. The servant was not contained quite so well. His contentment as they talked must have been an illusion borne in pain and the slow decay of a slide into damnation.

That wretched creature of the Count’s did still seek its own ends within him, if he had done such. It had not grown weaker after all. It had grown in strength, and manipulated itself into the position of dominant mind without his realisation. A tap at the door startled him from his ruminations.

Ah, it was only Jenkins. They were equally uncertain of how to treat each other, despite his jest of earlier. Jonathan saw in him a way to rectify his mistake of withholding information in his intrusion. “Would you be so kind as to please locate Dr. Seward? I need to speak with him.” Jonathan entreated in a strained tone.

He had to tell him! The attendant nodded and closed the glass.

Jonathan heard thunder rumbling through the asylum suddenly and frowned; perhaps that secondary feeling of strangeness he perceived outward of himself was just the atmosphere of a storm brewing. Storms made him restless. Perhaps it was due to how strong the gale force winds had been, and how vivid the lightning had been the night the _Demeter_ ran aground.

In the castle, the servant had so loved the wild nights of nature’s fury. He had danced in the rain, and laughed whenever lightning struck too close.

Perhaps it was a testament of ill tidings. Jonathan shivered, hoping that the fickle elements did not leave their plans ruined, and him unprotected. He had to remind himself that it was just that time of year for such things. If the ceremony were prevented outdoors, it could be moved indoors. Or the sliver that was to do with the holy water could be, at any rate.

Jonathan’s nerves were just frayed due to his guilt and his knowledge. He was only uneasy for the atmosphere around him, just as an animal surely was. He paced in his small quarters as he waited for Jenkins to retrieve Seward; he noted he was holding himself before he forced himself to stop. The violent cacophony of thunder only grew and signaled how near or far the lightning had struck; but looking from his bars he realised he had never seen the sky or the clouds looking quite so evil. 

Day became night for a short while as it felt like the gods themselves howled in the wind, and made war with each other with every crash and boom. His thoughts of either daytime slumber or anything more were quelled, even as a colder zephyr than outside swirled around him. His hair stirred; it almost felt like it was stroked. It didn’t feel like Lucy’s presence in the crypt.

He looked to the side, but nobody was there. He should have felt silly, but with his experiences, he did not. He did wonder how hysterical it would be to truly go mad just from a simple storm. Was it the other’s influence on him?

Wouldn’t _that_ be the rub? All his troubles, all his fighting for his soul, only for something as simple as a storm to cause him to become a permanent resident here after all that grief? It must be the events, and nothing more. “I must request a room without barred and open windows, after I tell him of Mina,” Jonathan chuckled to himself. The laughter soon died in his throat, as a familiar voice reached his ears; his mind; his soul.

It sounded so far away. **_‘Jonathan,’_** a voice growled.

The air was charged with electricity inside his chamber, and he tried to draw away from the direction of the voice; however, he knew not the origin, for it was both within and without. He rubbed his arms, cold against all logic. From sounds down the corridor, Jonathan knew that at least one neighbouring patient had taken a turn in their own fear of the storm.

He wasn’t alone in his distress.

He was alone in here, though. Something was being drawn from the air to manifest, and Jonathan somehow knew with a certainty that was not his own that there was no protection; crosses and holy water were for vampires. They had physical bodies that could be damaged.

This was beyond that. This was something that felt as though it took away light and warmth and even hope as something manifested.

The gas lights in the hall could still be seen through the glass when he peered out. While not truly needed by day, they flared brilliantly, and briefly dimmed, before dying altogether. Puzzled, he continued watching. The lights returned, though tinged blue nearest to his cell. They burned low only, no matter the ministrations of the attendants.

The oddness of the fire heralded a greater horror.

Walking to the middle of the room, Jonathan slowly turned. He dimly heard the sounds of wings buffeting the bars and the wall itself; first, from outside, and he presumed it to be the wind. He glanced up, and against a crack of lightning, something dark sailed swiftly through the bars.

He ducked down to hide his face, expecting it to be clawed. There was an unhealthy excitement curling in his chest when he heard that whooshing sound close to the wall, having passed so near his ears.

It swirled about the room, and then moved straight for him; it vanished seconds later, and Jonathan froze, knowing at last it was not alive. There was instead a cold presence, and Jonathan huddled down for warmth, knowing winter had not come to him, but something or someone else had. There was something more shaped like a bat in the shadows and crevices of his cell, always just almost out of his view.

No matter where he turned, he could not find the entirety of it.

It was a warning that his soul was not his own yet, wasn’t it? The servant howled with glee within; his true self was almost deafened at the cacophony, even though it was not given voice. He knew that dreadful thing already; he had not fathomed why. The other one must have sensed it; the other one must have guessed.

The other might have tried to hide it, but something had revealed itself so faintly in the crypt. There had been the suspicion. As he listened quietly, oh, so very quietly, he knew. The instructions were but the prelude; this was the Count’s grand entrance anew.

He saw it in his peripheral vision, for he didn’t look again; when he actually turned, nothing would be there. He scarcely dared to breathe and break the silence. If he did, nothing would happen; part of him almost broke loose to beg it to manifest before him, but he resisted. He didn’t need to make a sound. He knew it would show itself in its own time; its own way.

The arcane might of the creature still rendered Jonathan mute with awe, and a fear of what was to come. The slight breeze soon became a whirlwind that knocked his metal cup quickly into the wall. Water splashed as the carafe soon followed.

His bed would have overturned if he had not retreated there. He ducked at the last, as his stool went sailing over his head. It cracked against the wall, before it thumped so loudly onto the floor that he winced. Seward had given him blank papers to keep a journal if he so pleased, as a particularly kind gesture should he have a need to jot down anything; they were now scattered until there was no semblance of order.

There would never be a way to fix it, as they shredded in the force; he spotted his pencil as it sailed out between the bars as though it had a life of its own.

Jonathan covered his face as debris flew too close for comfort.

Then, it all went quiet. Cautiously, expecting to be struck, Jonathan moved his hands and sought to look. It could only be the Count that was behind this. If it was not something more, then his Count still held sway over the elements beyond life and undeath. He shook his head, realising the other was keenly excited, and making him call the Count his; it was influencing that much, even as he consciously resisted the word Master.

What more would the Count do to him to reclaim him? Jonathan waited, scarcely daring to make a sound. He was almost afraid to breathe, lest he miss a noise that could enable him to evade an imminent threat. The bed shook as though an earthquake were underway; he jumped to his feet, and all was steady.

“I won’t tell him,” Jonathan softly promised as a gesture of appeasement. There was an unquestioning obeisance to him that he didn’t want as he inched forward, uncertain of what direction he should face. It felt wrong to bargain in such a way, though it felt like the creature within enjoyed the spectacle of his potential begging.

“If you leave my life, I’ll never tell. I’ll lie. If you leave Mina and myself in peace, and allow the servant to be destroyed, I will never speak of this.” Not yet, no. He would if he survived and escaped this cell. He had horrid visions of himself being broken in half and left as a grisly surprise for Seward. He understood peace would not come from that quarter.

The Count always knew his thoughts. No matter what form he was in, he knew. No matter who was in control of Jonathan’s body, he knew. This was not a suitable agreement for the former boyar. Frigid air blasted Jonathan, causing the temperature within the cell to plunge. _**‘Of course you won’t. You are mine, and so you cannot speak of this,’**_ he heard clearly.

Suddenly, it felt as though a hand forcefully grasped his face to make him look where he wished he would. It wasn’t like Lucy’s touch. _Her_ touch had been so gentle; so enervating; it had been a noble lady imparting sympathy, well wishes, and support in a time of self-doubt.

This one was so familiar that his soul ached despite all of his protestations to the contrary. It was not emanating from him, but Jonathan knew the servant was creeping in bit by bit and twisting his thoughts with subtle humour. It had learned to keep a secret quite well.

It felt like that first night, when he was forced to consume blood. He almost didn’t care that sin was the end of that path, nor that he would keep fond company with death itself, if he should twice court the damned. He just wanted to be free. And then Jonathan gasped, for he could suddenly taste the tang of phantom blood, pouring into his mouth and over his tongue from a past dimly remembered.

Another vile illusion! He scrubbed his mouth, but nothing was there. He briefly lost control, and moaned.

Jonathan could feel himself losing, and the other seeking dominance; still, he struggled, though it felt like it wasn’t as fervently as before. It was like he was told to stop. When that entity was upon him, he could only be the slave; the servant; the wicked disciple, cavorting through the graveyards. He managed to tug away from the grasp, and clutched his head. He must resist. He _must_.

He must struggle and wrest his soul loose for Mina’s sake, if not his own; for Seward’s; for the Professor’s, as they would fall before a monster’s vengeance if he did not warn them. There was a darkness he dared not stretch out a hand to touch. He could hear his name spoken in a quiet, but nonetheless commanding tone. 

This presence was real, as if there were any doubt otherwise from the movement of things about the room; this was not madness; this was not just the servant. What lingered in this cell was not posthumous instructions crafted with a devious care. This was a creature with the devil’s own luck in warding off the end.

Jonathan’s head ached. Instead of screaming, he listened; he waited to know if more would be said; more accusations; more warnings. He felt his words would be muffled, and therefore reach nobody if he tried to scream for assistance. And then, the feelings changed within him.

Jonathan leaned backwards on the bed, as his eyes were drawn to the corner closest to his head. It was the darkest of them, and somehow seemed to swallow up all the light. The servant’s strange sense of contentment washed over him, and then a great heap of anticipation.

He soon saw why, and a smile began to form, even if he could not hope to look away. The Count was before him at last if he chose to look carefully into that gloom. His Master was returned to him in more than commands. Jonathan frowned, fighting back the desire to call him that aloud, before all trouble passed from his expression.

The Count was linked within those beauteous shadows, which only sought to take him out of this veritable prison.

“One shade the more, one ray the less,” Jonathan mouthed almost soundlessly. His true self found he was being locked away again; the other was in charge. The light grew dimmer within the cell; the world grew quiet; he grew still, and waited for that touch to return to him. Even if the ghost were death incarnate, he desired its touch.

The Count strode silently closer, floating all at once, as he pulled himself from the thickest of those shadows. He was little more than a shrouded being cloaked in the shadows of the night; he should have had a cape to seem more like himself, but he didn’t. Or, at least, he hadn’t; it was forming about him even as Jonathan thought this. Two red eyes burned in the black mist; rat-like white fangs gleamed, though they were no longer a physical threat.

It felt like claws twisted into his soul, lingering there as both a reprimand and an assurance. Jonathan felt exposed. It was exquisite and terrible. Jonathan heard as the servant boldly spoke the preferred reply, fearing he was lost at its very utterance. “Yours, Master. I am always yours, for eternity. Always yours, until my bones are dust.”

Jonathan was transfixed; his eyes fell blank from a brush with a trance, even as a hand stretched forth and cupped and then caressed his cheek. The chill was colder than when the Count had been a vampire. That cold sank into his bones; Jonathan, the servant in command, gladly ignored it. His strength was sapped away, or borrowed, and still Jonathan could not care. Quickly, the lightest of touches upon his brow, he fell into a trance that was complete.

Even as Jonathan’s eyelids fluttered, the true man realised this was wrong. He was destined to be damned, if he did the Count’s bidding. He was courting death by giving in, but he could not fight to be himself when those eyes were upon him.

The good man was the lesser one in this hour, and the darkness held sway. The goodness could only tremble within. The Count leaned closer, reminding Jonathan of another time in the castle. Then, closer still, until they were almost close enough for their lips to touch.

Such was not to be, though the servant did rise up and try. Instead, it felt to Jonathan that his breath was being stolen away; it was being replaced with the knowledge he would become what he had been. He would be replaced with the one who scared him and was always mad. Jonathan fell back further; his head couldn’t move from the flat pillow beneath it.

Jonathan felt a tingling within himself, as though like called to like. The old blood remembered its origin even all the time hereafter. He did not ache; the servant ached; he wanted to be touched, and the burning to fade. He wanted the icy brush of those hands. He felt almost wanton. He still held the phantom taste of blood on his lips and tongue, and struggled to contain the mindless need to surrender.

They stared, at first speaking without words. Thoughts were enough for them for a fleeting instant. Jonathan’s body grew limp, and his expression placid, even as his mind—guessing the horror that was soon to come—sought to send his body signals so that he would be in motion and pull back.

He must shrink away from the touch. Instead, he only moved closer, with that other one in control.

Let him in. Let him work. Let him laugh. Let two become one. Let them discover new touches of the flesh. Let Jonathan’s soul dissolve into nothingness. He would truly become blood of his blood; flesh of his flesh. The Count would _become_ him.

Jonathan shook his head. Why would he ever do that?!

The Count trailed a spectral finger from one temple to the next. Jonathan felt himself pulled under by a swift current, but knew he shouldn’t fight. He wasn’t drowning; he had been down a similar path before, though this true self ached to resist.

Jonathan’s head felt as though it would burst as Dracula’s power flowed down through the link they shared. Even in death, they were connected. It would not be assuaged; it could not be put aside. Jonathan heard the sound of wings buffeting the air again. It was a signal; it was the true start to this plan. The presence enveloped him as he threw his head back with a gasp.

It gave him a sensation of heat, before it seemed that he had fallen in ice water; a biting cold that penetrated everything crept down his body. It moved slowly down his neck as he bared his throat unconsciously. Jonathan knew he must be delirious, but he was comparing the sting of that cold to how Lucy must have felt as fangs pierced the delicate flesh in her throat.

That darkness slid around his wrist, as though the Count sought to clasp it and keep him; perhaps to drag him closer still. There was another softer pressure on Jonathan’s chest, as though a night terror sought to ride him. Neither his true self nor the servant could speak; they couldn’t do anything but stare into the two red eyes that felt as though they burned inside his head and through his veins simultaneously.

He jolted, as the sense of something winding itself through his mind like a snake returned. Shapes formed in his mind’s eye not conjured by him, and soon became clearer and clearer still. The castle. A piece of Jonathan, the barest sliver of his true self, was being returned to the castle. He was being led to the very hour in which he had become the Count’s wretched and jubilant puppet.

He was being pushed to pick the role by choice. He was being pressed for even more.

All sense of urgency faded away. A thrill went through him again at their nearness, before his eyes slid shut. The Count used the darkest passions that still lingered to gain this victory through his servant; the impression was filtered back to the true self; he would have his apt pupil returned permanently, and more. He would have Jonathan’s mind; spirit; will. He would claim his body for his own, once he had broken that will further.

The past had broken heartier men in his employ, and the Count knew Jonathan’s inner workings. Surely, the Count would be victorious. To do this, he must prepare the way; to succeed, he must be invited inside one last time. That was the last barrier; the simplest; the most bothersome. The servant would do so, but the true self was the requirement; the rightful owner of the body must concede. Breaking him in this manner was the only way to do that.

Jonathan fell asleep to the soft whispers of the dead and the damned. He could not know if he would awaken as a mortal or that servant, or if he would be taken over and destroyed by the Count.

Within his mind, Jonathan felt something cold and vile flapping near his cheeks, and shivered even as he stumbled backwards. He backed up, until his hands met a familiar stone surface. His true self felt he was surely in Purgatory. For a long stretch in time, he felt uncertain if he had ever left the castle. Was he destined to urge the Count to sign those papers forever? Or would he be forced to simply commit further vile acts?

He looked around him. It was most certainly the castle to which he was delivered in his darkest hour. All would be well so long as Jonathan’s soul remained his own. His steps echoed, as though he was the only one in the universe, even as the shadows stretched out wider. He stared out the broken windows, and saw vines creeping up the wall, as well as the courtyard. Well, the last was true upon his first visit, though the windows were originally in good shape on this floor.

Was he only an observer, sent here to be tortured anew? Was this a distraction, while his body was used for further sin? Was the Count bonding with him irrevocably, and sending his body on an errand of black vengeance?

Jonathan was beginning to understand, though he wished he didn’t. Or, at least, he was beginning to have suspicions with all the clarity of a man being sent to the gallows. He would be tempted or possessed or shattered; he would be remolded and forced to witness who knew what depravities once he gave in. There were subtle, infinitesimal variations in this familiar setting. He thought he saw the ghostly flicker of the three feral women pass him by and he started. No, this wasn’t what had happened.

He had not seen the women vanish into mist at once; nor had he felt their touch upon his neck or his lips as they passed through him like spirits. Their illicit affair had yet to culminate in physical acts of degradation when they were interrupted. He had been entranced and they had left. This was not right, though he did see the allure of it. 

And then the nightmare faded briefly as his true self struggled, and Jonathan knew with a simple touch; it was only an illusion; it was only a portent of that which was to come. It was but a taste before the Count stepped inside his soul. The Count could claim him as he wished. In sleep or now, it would be done; that was his mistaken belief. Jonathan knew that he couldn’t possibly fight this monster; he remembered those tales of commanding armies, and knew that strength of will.

Jonathan knew his own, so weak, so vain in his futile efforts to struggle against that power of nobler, darker times. And in that weakness, the servant held dominance and controlled his actions even more. Before he sank again into diabolical bliss, he felt only horror. No tears fell; no moans were uttered. He stared mutely into knowing eyes, so hideous and so cold.

 ** _‘I have used your mouth before. The trail into you is so familiar to me, is it not? You recall when the servant of mine did allow the use of yours. You enjoyed it when I filled you,’_** the Count insidiously purred across his mind. **_‘My blood once consumed will always make that transition smooth. The pain of your passage into eternity will be muted. Speak the words, Jonathan Harker.’_**

A soft reptilian laughter slithered through Jonathan’s soul. He would be persuaded through pain or bliss. It would be easy for him, the Count insisted; there may be sorrow or devotion from Jonathan or the servant, but it would come. He need only be patient. **_‘The time has come, you see. You will not cast me out. You will only invite me into your body, with your pleasure. You will only beg for us to become one.’_**

The Count’s hand was on the living man’s throat. Jonathan was molded so that his inhabitant would become his servant once before; he would briefly become his minion again in the present, without an inkling of the solicitor's conscience.

The Count had designs on that body. He would claim it as a vessel for the future, and would do it with or without the ring.  
\--

Seward had been driven to distraction by complaints from everyone in regard to the lighting of this entire floor from the second he had set foot across the threshold of the building. Having just returned from an errand in the village, he made his way to the floor that housed both his office, as well as Jonathan’s cell.

He finally saw for himself just how dim the lighting had become. The attendants were still trying to fix whatever the problem was, but nobody knew the source. From a brief perusal, even he couldn’t figure it out. The fact the flames writhed and became blue from time to time only lent an eerie pall over everything.

The storm had made his carriage slide and almost overturn from the wind alone, but he had managed in the end. Perhaps the two were connected. A few patients seemed fixated on some minor calamity of their own devising, but otherwise all seemed to be in order. A few of them were not particularly hospitable to more than a greeting and so he withdrew from their company.

He was finally informed that Jonathan needed to speak with him, and felt guilty that he had been forced to be out of contact for even a moment. He was curious as to what it was that Jonathan wanted to speak to him about. Had he remembered something worse? Seward had needed to pick up a few items from the chemist, for they were all out of particular needed medications.

One patient believed himself to be suffering from the curse of lycanthropy. He must be sedated before the full moon rose in a few nights. The fellow was an agonised soul; his quiet insistence, melancholy and serious, had made the sanest man doubt his stance on the supernatural.

After recent events, he had almost believed the man, before he saw reason. He would refrain from withholding the medicine and watching. There were more things in heaven and earth, as the Dane himself had said. The Count had undone his philosophy, and his encounter in the crypt had further tossed his beliefs to the kerb. What he had once considered sanctimonious claptrap he now knew to be spot on. 

Seward wandered over to the door of Jonathan’s cell, and glanced in the observation window. Or rather, he tried to look, for something was causing the glass to be tinted strangely. It wasn’t just the dullness of the lights out in the hall or the storm of earlier, but something in there.

He could not see a man within for the first few seconds. He feared Jonathan had gone missing. Perhaps he had made his way back to the crypt, and must be stopped.

No, he realised shortly thereafter. Contrary to that confused first impression, he could just make out strange movements where the bed should be. After a great deal of effort, Seward could only tell that a figure writhed oddly, and grew concerned; something dark shadowed the glass even further, as though a curtain were drawn.

Which was nonsense, for patient’s cells did not contain curtains. He strained to listen, and heard the occasional murmur of what seemed nonsense to him. It could have been something as innocent as a man talking in his sleep, though those instincts honed in recent days screamed that it was not so.

Seward moved to unlock the door; for a moment it would not budge, before he gave it a harder shove. Looking down, the stool had been wedged against it. He made his way further inside to investigate, as a sense of dread began to move over him. As he entered, he thought he saw a shadow swirling unnaturally beside Jonathan, and then across him, before it moved through him.

Seward’s view was at last unencumbered, though only briefly; it was just enough for him to see that Jonathan appeared to be in the grip of some heady emotion. The man was looking through Seward, to some other place or time or person. He appeared to be in a trance, before his eyes closed once more.

He passed a hand through the black haze; it curled around his fingers. Wherever it touched, his fingers went numb; it tightened around his hand threateningly. The form of a hand was across Jonathan’s neck. He inferred a threat from that, some being sought to claim Jonathan. 

That diabolical substance obscured the man entirely at first. It almost seemed to be forming a cocoon of some sort, just to keep him back. Jonathan moaned upon the bed; it was uncertain whether it was in pleasure or in pain.

From the way that Jonathan instinctively, and almost unknowingly displayed his throat towards that smoke, Seward could only think of one person it must be behind all of this. There was that fleeting sly smile, with adoration writ over Jonathan’s features, before it melted away. It was not an expression meant for Seward, or any living soul. Seward had seen it in the crypt; now he saw it again.

“Jonathan?” Seward called, weakly at first.

Two red eyes, as fearsome as hellfire, and appallingly smug and familiar, formed in the swirling miasma that surrounded Jonathan. Clawed hands touched Jonathan’s chest, and it seemed ready to enter into his body. Yes; this was the Count.

Seward comprehended that something was stopping him, or the process would have completed by now, and he would have been slain upon his entrance. Perhaps it would not be complete until Jonathan himself welcomed him with open arms. The Count’s creature had, of course, but the true man had to still be fighting. He couldn’t say what it was with any confidence. Seward stepped closer.

How long would it take to bring the Professor to his side? How much time did he have, before Jonathan was lost forever? 

He must require aid, but he was uncertain of what to do. Red eyes locked with his, and Seward found he could not move, paralysed, for what felt like an eternity to him. He felt words forming in his own mind, and knew he was in communication with a devil of the worst sort. There was a sense of an offer being extended, that he may take Jonathan’s role when Dracula possessed him.

There was a sense of Dracula reaching into him, before Seward grimaced and tried to fling up the prayer that Van Helsing had said in the graveyard. The Count’s expression grew darker if such was possible, and he turned his attentions back to Jonathan. “No,” Seward breathed aloud.

He was let go. Seward held himself up with the wall when he felt faint, and shook his head; he was beginning to slide down to his knees with the absence of that mind; this wasn't the way. He must remain upright. He regained his previous position.

The Count passed a hand over Jonathan’s face; a streak of something dark trailed over his cheek, then his lips, lingering as though in a caress, before it seemed to tug. Jonathan’s eyes opened, summoned from sleep, though it was not the true self.

Seward could see a trance become devotion; he would endeavour to reach Jonathan once more; and, this time, likely without Lucy’s spiritual intervention. Otherwise, he would be forced to explain to Mina how he managed to lose her husband’s soul while he hung back and did nothing. He would have to explain how it had come to this, after all the effort put into retrieving him in the crypt. It was dreadful and cruel, for this man to suffer so.

The servant chuckled, as his eyes turned to Seward. His Master’s power wouldn’t let him sit up yet, but such was not upsetting him in the slightest. All he cared to know was that victory was within reach. “Do you know? We all thought it was a receptacle to harness his essence. The ring just makes it easier,” he whispered as though confiding a secret.

He felt the Count’s thoughts drifting through what was once only Jonathan’s head, so long ago. He moaned at the glorious touch; such a powerful caress. “Less force is required, and less pain, and less recovery for the body. It only forcibly removes the soul, when it is so much more fun for the Master to make him accept him. It is necessary.” His grin grew. “He says _I_ will watch when that duller one passes from life. I can stay!”

The words had been fed to him; it amused him to taunt this once so ignorant doctor by being a translator for a splendid higher power.

He sighed, then. “I will be so honoured to see his every act within this body of _mine_.” The servant placed the greatest emphasis on that word in his glee. “I will be _so_ blessed.” Jonathan smiled, for he was pleased as he caught sight of his Master first in the corner, and then closer to Seward’s shoulder. He felt ecstasy, and didn’t care for anything else.

Seward briefly lost sight of him in the black mist, and wondered if they could both choke on evil. There was a horrid coldness near Seward’s right arm, and the smell of something dead and rotting, but he didn’t turn. He guessed it was something meant to frighten him away, though he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t look upon whatever it must be, as those eyes could draw even him in again.

There may not be a spare opportunity to wrest him free. Seward had promised to protect Jonathan; he had sworn to the Professor that he would. He must not renege on such a vow in this hour, even when his terror was massive. He must not simply pass out from the horror.

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw an overly large bat with eyes like hellfire. He lost sight of it soon after. The Count was continuing to change his form to heighten Seward’s terror. Eventually, Seward dared to look away from that corner and focus his attentions on saving the other man if he could. He must focus on reaching the right man.

“Leave me to this,” Jonathan snarled when he saw Seward growing more resolved. He hated that old self just as much; he wouldn’t let him reclaim his body. “I favour his path. I _want_ this as much as he wants to take me.”

Seward looked into his eyes, and saw the silent curl of a snarl of disgust and hatred. For all he knew, that hatred could be straight from the devil himself, for the gaze was so dark and full of bile. It was like he was before a caged animal.

“Leave us, for your own sake. Don’t you feel afraid? Mustn’t you see to other patients? Leave me to him, I say again,” Jonathan hissed. “I am his forever devoted servant! I am his creature, made with his _blood_. I will be rewarded.”

“No,” Seward said at last, in his most serious tone. “Never.” The same one he had used on the Professor after Lucy’s funeral, in point of fact. He focused on Lucy, while he stared down whatever was happening to Jonathan. A predatory gleam leapt into Jonathan’s eyes; it shouldn’t have startled him after the attack earlier, but it seemed even more murderous.

Jonathan laughed contemptuously, and appeared to scarcely know how to contain his spite. “Then you will _fall_ with them,” Jonathan quietly insisted. “It will not be gentle, for it will _hurt_. I will cause the blood to flow from your throat, as I ought to have done in the crypt. I will be the one to stop your heart for his joy, so that my Master may use your refuse before he is reborn from within me. You’ll never sway my loyalty from his path,” he quietly swore.

Jonathan’s eyes gleamed with all the belief of a zealot, even as he panted from an internal struggle. The creature within sought to distract Seward, and drive him back by deflecting all concern and tempering it with revulsion. He wanted to keep him away until that old self was gone, and the Count held dominion over his body in more ways than possession. He wished he still had that dagger in his palm. He had been so close. “You will never understand the power and the glory that he contains.”

He saw something in Seward’s face, though, which said he would not be frightened so easily.

“He’s lying to you; I suspect you will be gone, even as Jonathan goes,” Seward began contemplatively. “Don’t you believe it would be a hindrance, for the Count to let you exist and watch? If Jonathan was…was ruined, or forced out by you two…wouldn’t the body die, too?” He was trying to make it sound logical. It was almost impossible.

Seward paused, for he could see a hint of the battle being fought within, when Jonathan grew agitated. Was there a hint of the true self for an instant, or was it his imagination? He pressed on. “The rightful soul departs, if the research is as accurate as the Professor believes. I read over his shoulder for a few minutes, you see, until I was thrown out. Wouldn’t you go, too? Isn’t he all that keeps you in there? Isn’t the true self the anchor? Wouldn’t it just be the Count?” Seward didn’t know what he was even talking about, but if it muddled that thing, too, so much the better.

“No,” Jonathan said after a hint of hesitation. There was doubt about the Count’s power; a rarity in him. “I am always his, until my bones are dust!” He was confident of that. “I won’t be dead,” Jonathan suddenly insisted with a passion that wasn’t entirely certain. He could almost feel the Count’s frigid hand on his shoulder, spurring him onwards. “He would never let me die. I will have him! I will carry him forever!”

“You will be gone when he steals your body. You know this, if you’ll think back on your words and his,” Seward urged quietly. “Having just met the real Jonathan, I think it would be a pity to lose him, just when Mina was allowed to reunite with him. Jonathan, if you can hear me beneath it all, grab hold of your feelings for her and _fight._ ”

Seward swallowed. It was much more difficult to find the pressure points that would bring Jonathan out when he was on his own. “You said in the crypt he would be reborn through you. I want you to think very carefully, because you were busy plotting my murder back there. You would be but a shell, if you actually thought about it, whatever he says; whatever he implies. You would be a walking corpse, possessed and corrupted by him, that he manipulates.” All of his concern showed on his face and in his tone.

All of that concern was for the true man, and not this thing. Still, he managed to make it seem as though there was worry. If he could pull this off, then he belonged on the stage. He saw the moment resolve began to weaken. He saw another hint of the real man peeking out in fear, when the servant grew less focused.

Seward stretched his hand towards Jonathan’s face, and ignored the odd chill of it. It was only the Count’s doing, to drive him back. It was just as the room had grown colder, the longer he stayed. And then the temperature dropped even further, leaving him shivering. He wasn’t leaving yet. If they had to deal with frostbite, then so be it. He really ought to have brought his gloves with him, he mused as he rubbed his hands; they were in his office. “Fight him, Jonathan,” he urged. There was nothing else for him to advise.

There was an indescribable change in the man’s eyes. _There_ was Jonathan, befuddled at the words being spoken through him, and trapped in some fashion. However, he was breaking through for longer.

Jonathan himself was returned for an instant, and fought to rise from his position. His arms were too heavy; they felt like boulders had been placed upon them, and it was a Herculean effort to so much as twitch a finger. He could feel Seward’s touch move to his forehead; he did feel feverish. It felt like his soul was burning, or just being singed so that he would cease to be once the battle was done.

He dimly recalled that past demonstration of control in the castle, when his arms were held down; the other was delighted at that time; he himself was terrified. He recalled what he had been seeing, conjured up by the Count. When he was suddenly able to move, it felt like his head was shoved into an ice floe, and he gasped.

“Too cold,” Jonathan moaned softly as he pulled away from Seward. “Oh, God, stop!” The words were weaker when they came again. His eyes rolled back, as he sought to stare at the Count. “I—I can’t. I know you intend to have me believe that only blood is life and warmth, but I _won’t_. I can’t. I can’t. You can’t have me again. You _won’t_ have me again. God, it hurts!”

Jonathan slowly curled into a fetal position, shuddering, as he was all too apparently losing an internal battle despite his words. Seward was only witnessing the smallest piece of the fight. He must reach him! He must aid him in some manner, however superficial it could be. In desperation, knowing only it had worked against the Count’s physical self, Seward began to utter the words once spoken at the scene of Dracula’s defeat. It was the Latin formula; that prayer that had once driven away the undead.

“ _Adjuro te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_!”

It may have been stammering; halting; shuddering a bit as the icy presence loomed and grew and threatened to potentially swallow him up if he ceased his words. He peered into Jonathan’s face at the height of it and saw something shiver. There was a nervousness growing that heralded something of the man’s true nature attempting to pull free with greater effort.

Jonathan hissed in both pain and fury. “Thy will be done. I am thy servant,” the servant growled back in regards to his Master, as it tried to hang tightly to what it had.

From the Count, Seward heard a very deep growl going through his head. And, perhaps, Jonathan’s as well, from the direction in which he turned his face when he snapped back to himself again. It echoed through the room, causing the metal cup to vibrate where it lay on the floor.

While one pass of it wouldn’t do much, it still made the apparition float backwards in presumed irritation and, perhaps, a bit of pain. It still brought a strange flinching anguish to the servant.

Jonathan gasped, then; it was the man himself, resurfacing for who knew how long, before he sank again. Before he did, desperate eyes, preoccupied for the struggle, turned Seward’s way. Seward wondered if he really saw him at all, or was only reacting to the idea of what he was doing. “Again,” Jonathan begged. He took a shaky breath. “Again, for the sake of my soul, as it pains them!”

Darkness spread further throughout the room, to the point that it felt as though there was an eclipse outside. Murky fingers stretched towards Jonathan’s face, even as he moaned a denial.

There was power in those words when an unholy thing tormented them through a diabolical craftiness.  
\--

Jonathan flinched inside as the Count’s words pierced his thoughts, and clutched his head. Then, it became gentler, and almost as seductive as it was soothing. It was worse than earlier. The words enticed him so that he would give in. He couldn’t look away from the red eyes of the spirit.

 ** _‘You want this life; this imprisonment; this confinement. Your old one was stodgy and constrictive with its morals, did you not once say?’_** the Count wondered.

Jonathan could tell that he was smiling; he felt it in his head, even as he could feel the smile breaking forth on his own face and knew there were taunts likely flowing from his mouth again. He couldn’t say what the words were with any certainty, for he was locked inside his head.

He felt strange as the shadows coiled around his arms and wrists, and momentarily took his breath away before they no longer covered him. It both lured him closer to his damnation with its distraction, and made him feel desperation to scream for assistance at any cost. He had not said those words; the servant had. He should not reply in kind, as they both knew.

 ** _‘You invited me in once.’_** Jonathan could hear the smile in the cultured voice. Jonathan couldn’t move; somehow, even in his mind, such was impossible while the Count’s creature had control. **_‘You will again of your own volition. I will bind myself eternally to your flesh, and clothe myself in your bones.’_**

Jonathan knew that Seward could help him. He _must_ cry out to him. He must speak as himself a second time. He was terrified Seward would listen to the feral thing in his flesh and abandon him. He knew he never would, and the Count was likely planting as many doubts as Seward had in the other. Jonathan felt like he was hanging onto a cliff by his fingertips. There was to be no more begging for his life. He could see that now. **_‘You will let me in. If not you, then her!’_**

Jonathan wanted Mina safe; the Count knew this; he was being overwhelmed by the old sensations that were not of his making. There was ecstasy and agony; beauty and horror; the living and the dead. It was all the same to the Count. They were all as one to him, but Jonathan couldn’t let himself be any part of that.

The real Jonathan, the _true_ Jonathan could hear Seward urging him to fight if he strained to listen beyond the din of threats within; he could feel him touching his skin; he could also hear the Count, and feel the thrashing of the other thing both inside his body and outside, on the bed. Both wanted his soul. He wanted his life. Only one man wanted him safe, and he was in silent agreement. He didn’t want to die.

Jonathan heard the chanted words as though from a great distance. It was like having wool wrapped around his head, so as to block all potential sound and therefore all possibility of help. The Count wanted him deaf to his rescue. The servant; the monster; the wolf, such as he seemed to believe he was, wanted to keep his life, and squander it with evil acts.

He struggled to listen. He had heard himself speaking to Seward just prior, and knew it wasn’t him saying the words; neither was it the Count. He felt its glee when the Count was there, and its horror at the prayer. That leftover desired to embrace the devil and never let him go, and continue to run roughshod over his life while his true self would be forced into oblivion.

Jonathan felt different, though; while he felt ill, he also felt buoyed up; he was closer to breaking through the surface a second time, with Seward’s voice reaching through the abyss that seemed to stretch out and clutch him. Jonathan strained; he felt it as the bed shook, much as it had before when he was alone.

He understood why, as images flashed in his head. The other writhed, disgusted and anguished and fighting, slamming his body backwards to the corner of the bed. It wasn’t possible to get far enough away. It wanted to get outside; it needed to run; it needed to crawl and squeeze through the bars.

It would never do so much, even if Seward weren’t there to block his way.

Jonathan struggled. He managed to feel a cord loosen from his throat, so that he might speak more than he had; that had only been an instinctive evasion of the power, when he had begged to continue. Those Latin prayers were throwing off the shroud that had concealed his mind. He felt like he could breathe again; he felt like he had been under a churning sea and unable to find the surface. “You won’t take me again,” he gasped tearfully with his own mouth, even though it hurt to speak.

Was this how the Count felt before the might of a cross? Was this something of what the other one had expected to feel when he had found garlic in Lucy’s coffin? He was almost doubled over with the truest of agonies that he had ever been forced to suffer in his entire life. It sought to paralyse him. His fear tripled, and left him quaking; the servant’s was seeping into him.

Jonathan lunged forward and placed his shaking hand over Seward’s. It felt like invisible manacles had snapped from his wrists. The intentions were clear in his eyes, even if he wasn’t up to speaking them. Don’t stop, whatever he should say or do. Whatever should happen, do not leave him to the mercies of the Count.

One pass of the prayer wasn’t enough; neither were two. Jonathan didn’t know why, but he was certain that only one uttering them wasn’t enough to drive back that monstrous spirit. Nor was that particular phrasing entirely adequate for more than injuring the servant. Perhaps something bled from it and drifted into him; he didn’t know anymore, though it had happened often enough.

He felt that he knew at last the method to destroy it.

Seward nodded with a small, but terrified grin; message received, though he looked pale. Jonathan could _feel_ the Count’s presence seeking to overcome that first strike and redouble his efforts. He felt the servant snarl, and seek to curl up and stay within. The grip seemed to say that it would not be shaken loose in his lifetime.

Even thinking the proper words within this plan, Jonathan was riddled with a fear and doubt not his own. What was it that the thing had said to Mina before he was made to deny her at the ending of the day? Ah, yes. “I—I am afraid that you do have me at a disadvantage…but the well that houses your lies and your evil will be poisoned. _I_ will not be safe for _you_. My body shall not be your refuge.”

He licked his drying lips, and briefly began to choke, before its grip weakened again. It sought to silence him, for it knew his thoughts; the Latin words of that prayer made it shudder loose. It reared backwards, in deference to a particular quotation that Jonathan pondered.

The first line of the Lord’s Prayer, even thought, harmed it. He managed the first half of the line in silence. Spoken aloud, would it do worse? Would he live to say it through to the end? It was difficult to say, as his body convulsed, but he managed the first piece of it; distantly, he was glad that Seward didn’t release him; faintly, he wondered if his grip would bruise him.

It didn’t matter. He frowned, sensing it changing his words even as he opened his mouth for the next bit. “Coveted be thy name,” the servant growled with a ferocity that shouldn’t have been unexpected. Those weren’t the words he wanted. “H-h-hallowed be your name,” Jonathan corrected, even as he whimpered in pain. He must persevere.

It made him stammer, in the hopes it would quell his desire for freedom. He kept going, slowly creeping down the line of words.

It felt as though he was being dipped in a scalding cauldron of oil. It felt as though he was being flayed alive. It felt like Seward’s hands upon his own would be set alight if he did not stop and surrender. It felt like he was dying. It was the creature’s fear, transferring itself atop his mind. It was a mirage, cast in its desperation. 

It was a lie and he should not pay it any mind. 

To his credit, Seward never let go, no matter how Jonathan moved or kicked. Practically weeping, writhing on the floor face down, heaving as though he would be ill, Jonathan managed to finish the prayer. “And...lead us not into temptation, b-but deliver us…from _evil_!”

Ripples of pain flared into being at greater heights than before, despite him being uninjured. It flooded through his body with every word. Something altered as it concluded; the feelings hitting Jonathan were like he had witnessed a demon receive a fatal blow. What they had made of Jonathan eased even as it twisted. It finally seemed to shrink away; to dwindle; to recoil fully; and, at last, it perished as though a liquid had evaporated from the entirety of his body.

Jonathan heard a single sharp scream morph into a grisly howl even as it went; it was pained, and he almost didn’t recognise it; he realised it was his own voice, stolen a final time for its use, for its pain, for its death. That was its last cry.

That was its death rattle. At last, it was gone. He felt lighter; emptier; cleaner; saner. It was gone, but there was still the Count. He sucked in air. “He’s still here; his...darkness permeates everything. We start again, together. We say the Latin,” Jonathan panted, though he wanted to fall down and sleep. His throat hurt from that wrenching cry. He was nauseous from the shock of everything abruptly tearing loose, but still this could not stop there.

“The Latin,” he insisted in a stronger tone that brooked no argument, even as he pushed aside the worst of his body’s reaction. He nodded his encouragement to the doctor, and so Seward began again. This time, with Jonathan’s voice accompanying him.

Jonathan may have been put through the wringer, but now he was, to Seward’s amazement, forcing himself to repeat the words along with him all over again, in a clear act of defiance.

A third time together; a fourth; a fifth; a sixth.

Seward gasped as something far more vibrant and evil manifested behind Jonathan, but he strove to continue. While the manifestation was vague before, it was almost as real as life in this instance. Clawed fingers clenched themselves possessively around Jonathan’s throat, as well as his chest. The claim upon the man was evident; the Count sought to warn him back, despite the loss of the servant. A face formed, red-eyed and wearing a cruel expression, whereas before it was primarily the eyes that Seward could perceive.

Jonathan’s own eyes were terrified as they travelled between the Count and Seward. “No,” he managed to choke out. He squeezed his eyes shut, so that he would not look and lose himself. “My answer was no to the servant...and so it shall remain for you. I say again: You cannot have me back!”

Jonathan felt himself shaking again, but it wasn’t him. His mind and soul were being buffeted by an anger he had never dreamed existed. He was only the eye of the storm; he was but a focal point for the Count’s wrath. He tried to hold on to thoughts of himself, and how he must not be torn asunder like the once great mast of the _Demeter_ before the elements.

“You can’t have him back,” Seward breathlessly vowed. It was just as Jonathan had said; he would repeat that vow. He felt close to fainting; all of this was almost too much, between the chaos in here, and all those times he had donated blood to Lucy in previous days. He felt Jonathan’s grip tighten on his hand. He already felt the bruises of thumbprints from earlier. Jonathan shook himself, and locked eyes with him.

Together, he and Jonathan started over, for they felt that they had paused too long in the middle to speak. Every so often, Jonathan would tack on ‘I do not belong to you. You are no longer my Master,’ and Seward nearly wept both from the man’s struggle and for his courage.

The Count drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders; it was almost impossible to make out in the room. The darkness receded, even as the shadows had moved and pulsed with fury. The Count was choosing to retreat. He had given them his warning, with the blast of feeling in Jonathan. He had wanted his servant, and lost him. This was not over. He would strip Jonathan of his humanity in some other manner, at a later time of his choosing when Jonathan was not so prepared.

At last, after an interminable amount of time passed with them on the floor of that Spartan cell, there came a snarl. Until the coldness lessened within the room, neither man dared to look and risk being drawn into a trance. When they finally did together, they were in time to see the Count’s spirit first float backwards, and grow ever more ephemeral.

There was only the outline of his profile in evidence, then, before the darkness rippled around the stone like it was water. He passed through the wall; the last things to fade from view were the eyes, as though the glare was bright enough to pierce the wall itself. Finally, it, too, was gone, though it was soon made quite clear that this was not a total victory.

His body language had not been one of defeat; he was not truly vanquished. They had won this battle, but not the war.

 ** _‘You are mine, until your bones are dust. I am sure you recall that promise, Mr. Harker,’_** Dracula directed almost sweetly into Jonathan’s mind. Then, the voice within his head grew to fill with barely contained rage. _**‘I will not be so merciful later; you will not feel solace as your world is rent asunder.’**_

The threat drew from Jonathan a startled moan, even as he steeled himself against the intrusion; Seward looked to him in concern. Jonathan shook his head, unable to give voice to what he had heard. He could tell him later, if he must.

When silence descended without another intrusion, Jonathan slumped; he was perspiring, and quietly patted Seward’s arm with his free hand, just to reassure himself that, yes, they had just done that. Yes, he was well; yes, they were alive. A moment passed, before Jonathan stirred and lifted his face. Shaking, he weakly removed his hand from the other man’s.

The danger had passed, though they couldn’t say for how long. The shadows no longer writhed or held the Count’s form. In the hallway, the gas lights ceased to be flickering and dim. They were as they had been before.

“T-thank you,” Jonathan hoarsely managed, as he turned his face towards the window. There was one last cloud. He felt oddly numb, and wagered this was what true shock felt like. He was out of breath from the tumult of what basically amounted to a haphazard exorcism of something that, perhaps, wasn’t truly a demon. There was no way to tell.

Seward was briefly speechless. Then, the doctor in him surfaced, and he quickly and quietly evaluated Jonathan’s health. The supernatural evidently soundly wrecked his findings; however, as Jonathan’s pulse steadied, he suspected he was in no danger in that regard.

Sunlight streamed into the cell as the weather appeared to resume its natural course; Jonathan squinted from the sudden brightness of everything. While his senses were acute, at least he wasn’t a vampire. His senses as a whole were still reeling, as his body adjusted to the transition of going from wracking terror, to peace and calm; from a soul occupied by another thing, to a solitary gentleman.

“Give me a minute,” Jonathan quietly begged. “I feel as though I have been employed as a spinning wheel in another life.” He held his head as he leaned back against the wall. His muscles were sore from being thrown around, too. After a few breaths, the dizziness was passing.

While Jonathan caught his breath, Seward took in the damage around them. He placed the now dented cup back on the counter, and righted the pitcher; it had spilled its contents across the wall. He righted the stool, though one leg was loose from its mistreatment. He nudged the paper—more like confetti, really—away from the bed and surrounding area with his foot, until it was mostly confined to the corner.

He was glad that he had not given Jonathan a large book, for it would have been implemented to brain the man. When he looked down at Jonathan, still getting his bearings, he shook his head. “We’ll take care of any damage later,” he assured him.

“You weakened him,” Jonathan whispered in awe, from where he leaned against the wall. “ _We_ killed him.” He gave a small, breathy chuckle. To his consternation, it was almost a giggle.

Seward glanced back at the man. “The Count?” he asked, baffled; momentarily, he forgot about the debris. Jonathan shook his head, and there was quiet exultation in his eyes; there was elation; it was easier to understand the comment. “Do you mean that secondary shadow self that overcame you? That _parasite_?” Seward would not name him what he wished. He, too, was pleased when Jonathan confirmed it. “Good.”

Seward nodded again. “It caused enough suffering.” That thing had held Jonathan down for far too long; its influence was vile. He was impressed Jonathan had had the wherewithal to even come up with the manner of its destruction in his distress.

Jonathan searched himself, so that he might explain the impressions and sensations at the height of the prayer. “We have exorcised him from me. I felt him die; I heard his scream, just as you did, I trust; I felt his death throes. I--I am free of him!”

He felt so alive! It wasn’t the manic joy that had consumed him when the servant held sway, but a genuine joy that something was left of him to extricate at all. It was wonderful that he wouldn’t be damned to feel that creature until the end of his days.

He prayed a similar mindset was never planted inside him again. Jonathan found tears in his eyes from his happiness. “He cannot steal more of my life; he cannot harm another soul; he cannot feast on ever larger lives,” he whispered as true understanding struck. The Count, of course, did still remain.

They were quickly pulled from their satisfaction and joy by the unexpected sound of glass smashing violently out in the hallway. Seward and Jonathan both started in surprise. Seward shook his head at Jonathan before he could struggle to his feet. No; he would not leave to investigate the cause, lest it prove to be a distraction to ensnare Jonathan again. He put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder; he was quietly taking in how tired the man looked. He wasn’t up for a fight. Neither of them were.

“No,” Seward advised. “You stay here, and I shall only scan the area and see what I might from the window.” Jonathan had moved to his knees, nervous and ready to depart if they must; even in the face of what must be a bone deep exhaustion, he was alert. He thought it best for his health that Jonathan should seek another moment of calm, if that were possible.

He edged closer to the door; looking out, he couldn’t see the source of the sound. He cautiously opened it, and then wider still. He feared the Count would suddenly strike him, and possess him in retaliation, or that he would surge through him and snatch Jonathan.

What calamity had occurred out there? It appeared as though the mirror at the end of the hall had been smashed, though he could see no escaped patient that might have done the deed. There was a cry from the direction of his office before another more distant tinkling of glass, and he tensed.

“I fear the Count is angered by your victory in here,” Seward ruefully deduced. Anger wasn’t the half of it; he had always seemed so rational and steady when it came to his thin veneer of civility. Well, until his true nature was revealed. Seward needed to be positive that nobody was injured. “Jenkins? _Rowse_? What caused such a commotion?” He called out before he returned to Jonathan’s side. They waited, and he squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder when he looked to him for advice on what they should do.

After a silence so profound that Seward feared the attendants were dead, there came a shout of acknowledgement, and then the sound of quick footsteps. It was Jenkins who entered the room with hesitation, and then confusion as he saw the mayhem that had occurred inside this room.

“Please do not ask, Mr. Jenkins,” Jonathan implored the man wearily. “It was not I that caused this latest upheaval.”

“I believe ya,” Jenkins slowly replied. “A window burst open, Dr. Seward. Thought it was the storm, and tried to close it, but…no. It wouldn’t have such. It shattered, and so did half the ones on this floor. I was checkin’ your office, turned to the mirror, and, well…somethin’ with two red eyes was leerin’ somethin’ awful at me. It passed through the wall opposite it, and was gone. Heard a growl I’d liken to the hounds of hell, and the mirror just—it just shattered, Dr. Seward,” he finished in shock.

“It just shattered. I ain’t gone mad,” he insisted. “None of the patients are hurt. I’ve looked.”

“I know you haven’t. We have had our own brush with such a creature,” Seward explained. He inclined his head, grateful that someone had checked. That room was but a few doors down from this one. If the Count passed through the wall here, he would have made his way there, just to make a point in his anger, it would appear. “Find someone to help with cleaning up. Don’t mention those eyes to anyone else.”

“Who would believe me? I’m already workin’ in this asylum; not makin’ people think the madness is contagious!” Jenkins stated as he spread his arms in a shrug. He thought it was bad enough when Jonathan had escaped and smashed through a window when company was present, but a few days ago; now he knew it could always be worse.

He saw how haggard Jonathan looked, and shook his head, divining from the earlier comment that the oddness centred on him, just as it always did. “Hope ya feel better, whatever tried to get ya before the property damage.” He guessed that an answer about exactly what it was that had transpired was not immediately forthcoming unless he pressed the doctor and potentially endangered his own job, and sighed.

“Thank you,” Jonathan replied politely, with a weary attempt at a smile.

Jenkins tipped his hat to Seward after the suggestion of cleaning. “Rowse!” He called as he exited. “Don’t just get one broom, man! Get _all_ the brooms!”

Seward leaned into the hall, and grabbed Jenkins’ elbow before he could get too far. “Might I suggest that you speak with me in private tomorrow afternoon? The Professor and I _can_ explain, though you might think us equally as mad as you feared I would find you.” With the offer put in such a manner, he was left half floundering. What would he do if Jenkins accepted? He wondered if the Professor would have his head on a platter for doing such.

The attendant mulled over the gravity of those words, before he shook his head. “I’d like to think of you as more than a halfway decent man, with a healin’ touch in this one’s case. I can take one brush with unnatural fiends. Is more comin’ that’re like him?” At Seward’s quiet dismissal of such, he nodded once. “Then, don’t need no warnin’, do I? So long as he don’t turn up the gas without the lights and do us all in, we’ll do fine, eh, Doc?” 

He caught the expression on Seward’s face, but knew better than to laugh. It could cost him his job. And with that, Jenkins strode off to find the dustpans, so that he might aid Rowse. Seward was impressed. While those last words weren’t entirely beyond the pale, in light of the situation they were enough to give him pause.

“He didn’t mind if an outsider saw,” Jonathan marvelled in quiet horror, once Seward had returned to his side. The Count’s anger at being denied had truly found expression. They needed protection from him; they needed a talisman or an amulet. They needed something that could drive back a spirit with permanence.

Seward stretched out his hand to help Jonathan up; he wondered about the mysterious smile and little sigh that accompanied the action, even as he brought the man to his feet. He didn’t need to ask, as it was promptly explained. He kept a hand on Jonathan's back, to make certain that he wasn't going to collapse, and was gratified when he only stumbled for an instant, and then was sturdy enough.

“I went to my knees before the Count; he pulled the servant to his feet with the strength of ages behind the grip,” Jonathan simply commented. “He pulled me into that place where shadows dwelled and demons thrived, and reshaped my nature with a look and a touch after the taste of blood. You pulled me away and into the light.” He glanced over his shoulder. In truth, yes, he was standing in direct sunlight.

In truth, the demons were at bay. In truth, he was halfway to freedom. If he could, he might have danced. Quietly, Jonathan waved off his steadying hand; he could and would walk on his own terms.

“It’s all circular,” Seward guessed he meant. He put one hand on his shoulder, to make certain he had Jonathan’s mind on the present. “Never think I am your Master, Jonathan. Not for one moment. _Normal_ transference could do such, and if your mind already links us, I worry.” It was best to be honest about his fears. Secrecy helped nobody.

He knew Jonathan was smart enough to intuit the rest. He could divine the danger that would come from that type of gratitude.

“I won’t think like that, Dr. Seward. Or, I will purposefully endeavour not to, now that I’m me,” Jonathan agreeably corrected. It was a worrying thought, but he was still charged despite his physical state. He was truly elated to have been brought out of that skittering madness, induced though it was; he was thankful to have survived this latest scrape.

The only way he knew how to go on was simply keep to his present course. They must make it to tonight; he must not become the Count’s puppet again. He would stand with everyone in the graveyard, and he would drink from the vial.

That would be the time for him to turn the final key, and permanently unlock and discard his shackles. He would never be a slave to Count Dracula again, if everything went smoothly.

They must pay a visit to Van Helsing, for time was of the essence. “Let us go to the Professor,” Seward advised. “We shall determine if there is a talisman that can prevent his intrusion for you again.”

They had much to tell him.


	7. Chapter 7

Mina heard sounds in the corridor, and put an ear to the door. She could only make out a distant tinkling noise, as though something was being swept up and discarded in heaps with little care all along the passageways. Perhaps someone had grown agitated, and stirred up a fuss in their distress. She shook her head, and began to move away.

It was likely of no concern to her, given her current residence. From time to time, an echo of a patient had drifted to this room. She had quickly ascertained that a few of those sounds came from the direction of the stairwell, and were not imminent danger. It was mostly nonsensical babble; an incoherent shout; a prolonged shriek of someone in what sounded to her like the worst terror imaginable.

It wasn’t Jonathan, though, and so she consoled herself in that fact. It made her shudder to think of him being a patient here, though John had treated him with great care and respect. He had been a wonderful host to her, even before the truth of her husband’s identity as his patient had come to light. He had proven that he would not give up on him, for that matter.

Still at war with particular impulses, she absently caressed the sharp onyx on the signet ring. Without thinking, she had pulled it from her pocket once more. Her lips curved upward in a smile as an insidious idea drifted through her mind. Should she try it on?

Yes, she would do that which Jonathan could not in this hour. Enough time had passed, just as they had implied to one another. He could be observed, whereas she would not be suspected, while in the Professor’s distracted care. Granted, he was not absent-minded. The madmen’s noise could be the odd backdrop for whatever changes she underwent as a result, but needs must.

She gasped, as there came a sudden tapping, and then a gentle rapping upon her chamber door. She shook her head with a smile, broken loose from sordid plans and diabolical ways by the simple knocking upon a door, and an inane recollection of Poe. It was likely only John, and nothing more.

With a sigh, she put the ring in a drawer, quickly forgetting it as frantic murmurings drifted to her ears. Mina strode quickly to the door, wondering if, perhaps, there truly had been an escape. She was in time to catch John with his hand raised, presumably to knock all the harder. His expression was nervous, yet adamant.

She looked beyond him, and spotted Jonathan. He was leaning upon the wall near the door, as though that was to be the final thing that kept him from collapse. Seeing the expression on both their faces, she gestured for them to quickly come in. “What has happened?” Mina wondered. Then, she stepped closer to Jonathan as he approached and looked into his eyes. “You look…different,” was all she could say.

It felt to her as though he did not have that wildness or that wrongness wrapped around his core anymore. If like called to like when she was not herself, could she perceive the lack?

Jonathan moved to sink into a chair, and she knew this was more complex than simple tiredness.

“We have just come from a fight with the Count himself,” Seward began. Then, he looked down at Jonathan; he saw the fight to stay awake, but he also thought it was the solicitor’s right to be the messenger on the subject of his personal victory.

Jonathan sat up straighter, and leaned forward, taking Mina’s hands in his. “Let us just say that I was briefly torn loose from the moors of sanity, and shoved by the Count into the twisting corridors of my past.” He saw how puzzled she was, and chose an easier recounting. “I am no longer inhabited by the beast that the Count used as his agent. I have been soundly exorcised, and that is the cause for my current state.”

Mina felt something in her despair at ruined plans, but sought to keep a concerned face. It was the truth, as well. She was happy for him. “He returned?” She asked, half in wonder and half in terror. 

“It was a close shave,” Jonathan quietly informed her after further thought. “He wishes me to do the equivalent of throwing myself onto a bonfire and let him take up the reins. Whereas I would prefer to live; I would rather not hold fast to the recollection of the pale stones of the castle splashed red with blood. Mine; his; a victim’s. Anyone’s, really.”

He would also like to forget the Count’s blood veritably pouring over his own pale and frightened lips in the castle, but he didn’t have a choice in that regard. He dared not say such to Mina, lest he frighten her further. He soon realised that, perhaps, he had spoken without thinking. Thoughts of blood splashing could cause fear as well.

She finally made the connection to their presence, and gestured to the furthest door. “If you need a consult, have a care. He is at the bottom of a veritable mountain of notes, and may be distracted.” Before they could speak, she continued. “He didn’t wish to be disturbed after his short break, but with a matter like this, I entreat you to hurry. He believed he had found the proper chant to end of all of this, but I was not so sure at such simplicity.”

Seward believed Mina was looking rather odd, but with so many matters piling up, perhaps it was only getting to her, too. He was glad to have her as an ally to their cause. He moved closer to her as she stepped away from Jonathan. “Did anything shatter in here? His fury caused damage in the hall where Jonathan resided.” He thought she might receive a visit, as Jonathan had mentioned a threat in relation to her.

“We were concerned for you,” he finished, taking her hands without thought.

“No,” Mina assured him as she squeezed his hand. She wondered why he flinched; when she finally glanced down, she saw such bruises mottled his hand that it was easily understood. “I heard several attendants cleaning up something which sounded of that calibre, but no more.”

Seward pondered her words, even as he stepped around her to the door. He stopped with his palm on the knob, and glanced back at his two friends. “Jonathan? If we’re too long, and if you feel that you can rest, don’t be afraid to close your eyes.”

Jonathan began to try to get comfortable, despite the situation. He tucked his legs beneath him, even as he acknowledged that he would do so.

Seward pulled Mina aside as another thought struck him. “Protect him, Mina. Give a shout if something appears to be amiss, or if something appears at all that is unnatural.” He trusted her, for she loved Jonathan. She had fought to get to the man when she first discovered he was here, and he doubted she would allow anything to befall him.

“What could _I_ do against _him_ after _death_? He has no physical form to harm.” She wondered in an odd tone that had an undercurrent of humour. There was none safer in all the world than she from him, she suddenly thought with a mental laugh. She didn’t know why she felt that way.

She didn’t like it. And yet, at the same time she felt she could come to enjoy it, in a way that was a stark contrast to her very being.

Seward, however, misread the words entirely, and took them at face value. “I found certain formulaic prayers suitable, when they were in Latin. Jonathan found the Lord’s Prayer to be a blessing in his darkest hour. It is my expectation that the Professor will have found some sort of suitable artifact that we can easily make use of, and thereby protect Jonathan and ourselves from the Count.” He desperately hoped so, at any rate.

As Seward left them, Mina touched Jonathan’s shoulder. She feared those words might leave her damaged as well, if they were spoken in her presence.

When Jonathan looked her over as though he was struggling to bring something to mind, she smiled. “Go to sleep, dear. Or you can tell me the tale of his reaction to your freedom, if you desire to do so. You spoke of his plans for you already. How many mirrors became casualties?” The last was said almost teasingly, for it was so odd to her.

Jonathan shook his head. “He wasn’t happy when the fiend within me died. His blood birthed it; at least a dozen passes of the trinitarian formula, punctuated by the Lord’s Prayer, killed it altogether,” he murmured almost shyly, still in wonder. Perhaps that was an exaggeration in the number, but he had not counted as he went in and out of reality; he had been at war for his body. “And then we spoke the first together, John and I, and temporarily stalled him.”

On the way here, Seward had finally given him leave to call him John, and stated that after everything, it was best. It still felt wrong to Jonathan when he was in the doctor’s care, but after what they had been through they were closer than they had been. He gave her a small grin at the last question. His chin went up in an attitude, which might, at first, appear to Mina as though it was half mischievous and half proud. “In his fury at the loss of his servant, he was reduced to smashing four mirrors and ten windows.” 

He wasn’t arrogant about it. It was just for Mina; it was just to show her that he was well, and retained a sense of humour, which had been blunted and stifled in some ways by the Count. Jonathan gave her a hard smile, before he spoke his true thoughts on the matter.

He would turn his attentions to the struggle in the manner that he had his studies of law and real estate practices. He would go all in. “All will be well. He shall be bullied in his own way, and then soundly thrashed. Just as I said earlier, he will be trounced.” He found, perhaps, that sleeping in the chair would only be achieved if he twisted himself into knots. In lieu of waking with a kink in his neck, he quietly rose and moved to the longer divan.

The very words she planted, he unknowingly recited again. **_They shouldn’t fight. All will be well if they do not_**. Mina noted the intrusiveness of such a feeling, and the fact it would cause betrayal and scorn and pain if she listened and begged for that.

“Good,” Mina mused aloud instead. Jonathan didn’t notice her distraction at first, and likely wrote it off as fear for him. She observed as his eyes grew heavier still; she saw when there was a mild suspicion. With a smile meant to quell any arguments, she gave him some advice. “Don’t struggle, Jonathan. Don’t fight. Just give in, and rest. Just as you desire. Put your safety in my hands.”

His eyes became dull as he listened. There was a sense of discomfort on his face, though it was almost more of a trance in these first few seconds. One leg on the divan, the other off; one arm was over the back, and the other cushioned his head. 

It couldn’t be comfortable for the poor man, and yet it was. Mina moved his wild white hair from his eyes with a gentle brush of her fingertips. His eyes fluttered, and he struggled to stay awake. He had forgotten the reason why he sought to resist as their eyes locked again. He began to feel as though he was meant to be comfortable in her presence.

With a fond smile, his eyes closed; he sank into an unnatural rest.

She shook her head, and almost laughed when he scrunched up his nose in disgust, completely unprovoked. Could he know her thoughts? Did he understand her feelings at this hour? No. She stroked one finger lightly, slowly, and inexorably down from the crown of his head to his throat. If she looked at her motivations, in time she would find them sinister. At this time, she felt she would save him in another way. She would give him one less thing to worry about.

Jonathan should have been safe in her hands, she thought. He should be safe, and protected, just as Seward had directed. He should be cherished, and praised for cutting himself loose with such a cunning strategy as _prayer_.

Her mind turned to the ring, and her strange urges settled in deeper still. Her eyes turned hard; they were drawn to his throat, much as they had been to John’s earlier. She licked her lips, and wondered if fangs would sprout under her direction; her will; her thirst. Or would it only be when blood entered her mouth?

Yes. He _should_ be safe. He _would_ be, if he departed her presence at once.

He _must_ be, she told herself fiercely. She couldn’t trust herself. And then, Mina smiled, and sought to ignore the petty squabble in regard to the nature of good and evil.

She rose and opened the drawer; she felt pulled to it, so the plans that were not hers could be fulfilled. She looked upon it without pulling it out. She would keep it from the view of anyone who might deem to intrude; she quietly stroked a finger over it. It would be so easy to draw blood from him, but not yet. Not until she could take him somewhere even more private. She heard a gasp from Jonathan, and smiled; slowly, the drawer was closed, so as to not truly reveal her guilt.

"Oh, Jonathan, you mustn't fight your exhaustion. You'll only make yourself unwell," Mina chuckled without looking. She made a resolution. She would do nothing to him, unless he was to look within; she would use her own blood instead. The servant was driven out, so there was nothing to prevent him from raising a cry. There was nothing to stay her hand.

The thought shook her, and made her doubt she could be saved. She struggled not to reveal any of these doubts on her face, and struggled to feign calmness as she turned.

When their eyes met from his location upon the divan, he appeared to be losing himself for an instant. A moment more, and that trance she hoped to achieve had passed. They were almost engaged in a battle of wits, with the changing expressions rippling across his face. When he was ready, he could almost fight it. Finally, there was what she almost termed defeat. It was foreign to him before, and brought out her old self.

He mustn’t feel that because of her. He shouldn’t!

Finally, he sighed and sat up. He looked away from her, and over to one of the books Van Helsing had left here by mistake. He fought to achieve clarity. At last, he warily looked back to her, as though he could read her every thought.

Instead of accusing her, he spoke of his own dilemma. “The other one had particular emotions linked to you and all that you endured, but it’s hard for me to remember them, or specific thoughts he had. It’s not like when he made me forget. It’s like now that he is dead, certain avenues of thought should not and cannot be pursued. He—he had plans. I know he had plans, aside from the obvious.”

Mina rubbed his arm, though she felt she should retreat and find another room. “It will come to you in time.” By then, it would be too late for her. “You don’t feel cold anymore; you had a chill lingering upon you,” she said as a way to turn from the topic at hand.

“I know,” Jonathan ruefully continued. “I did not truly notice or care before. I’m warm, though not feverish. I’m weary down to my bones, though I’m also energised from the dread. John advised that I sleep, but I find I should not.” They were avoiding the issue at hand, he felt.

He looked as though he had trouble with his wording, and didn’t want to accuse her of anything if she was innocent. He stared down at his hands, before looking up and meeting her eyes. His next words were simple; they held no accusations; they contained no anger. They only carried his worry, and his love. “I know those plans involved you, Mina. They were for tonight. I know you made me forget.” That single strand had become vibrant when he fought.

Carefully, he reached forward, and took one hand in his. He trusted her with his future in the past, and found he would still trust her with his life in the present; he wished to advise her. She was his best friend, as well as his wife no matter what she was becoming. He didn’t want to lose her; he wouldn’t vilify her before the others unless the need should arise that he speak up.

If his choice to remain silent brought death to their door, then it would be to his eternal detriment. He would not see her hurt.

His eyes were focused upon her own, despite the risk. “Think of your life, Mina. Please.” He knew that look within her eyes, for he had seen it in the Count’s. He had seen it in Lucy’s, with that odd ability to see what the Count had seen through that blood connection.

He had seen it himself whenever he passed that great mirror in the castle, as the servant skulked about in his body and hunted his small prey. He knew the cause was a lust for blood, but this was her fight. Just as his fight for his own soul was only his to win in the end, though John had played a large part. 

She stepped away from him, as though she were either afraid of her words, or afraid of a bloodlust taking hold. She looked into his eyes again; he didn’t turn away, even as he felt that familiar magnetic pull. He found himself moving closer almost against his will.

“I will,” she softly replied. She knew she was lying, even as she said it. “I am.”

“I don’t believe you,” he replied, just as softly. He would keep his voice down, lest their marital trouble such as it was should become the knowledge of John and Van Helsing. He could see the truth about her. “I speak from experience. I know what it says to you; I know what it’s doing, though I was never bitten. Think of how Lucy died.” Was this a good time to speak of how she had fought at his side during the worst in the crypt? He doubted it. In good time, it would come up again.

“And I pray you never shall be bitten, with him laid to rest, once his ghost has passed,” Mina replied. She turned away to hide the tears at the thought of Lucy’s final death, though she was still listening. She was horrified. What had she almost done?

He rubbed her arms, sensing that very emotion. “Remember what we were. Focus on that. If you cannot, think on Lucy, and her love for you; it is unending,” he whispered. “Concentrate on life. Living. Love. Whatever you may think of, that I cannot.”

“Remember what you may become again, should I go astray,” Mina warned just as quietly. It was both appealing, and appalling. “Remember what could be returned to you yet. You would be a puppet; a pawn; a mindless creature bounding away, willing to do as another commands.”

Could she scare him away with her words? No. After all, he hadn’t frightened her away with madness; with possession; with a diabolical evil not of his own making.

Jonathan pulled his hands away. There was danger lurking in her eyes, though he would risk it to see her soul safe; she was the same. He hoped she could contain it. “Yes. Of course,” he agreed. “When we’re both well, we should talk.” When she looked up at him with a slow smile, he found himself falling into her eyes.

He was soon growing sleepy, and knew she was the source. He perceived that telltale hypnotic glint in her eyes. He knew they did not bear a red glow to mark a change into an undead creature; there were no fangs. Or was he mistaken? There was still hope, wasn’t there?

Without another word, and almost without a care, he lay back down on the divan before he felt more like himself. He blinked rapidly, fighting that compulsion to sleep he sensed being planted even as he turned his head, baring his throat. She brushed his hair from his neck; he shivered, and then managed to suppress any further reactions.

“It won’t hurt,” she promised. She kissed the most sensitive part of his skin beneath the chin, and heard a sigh that sounded solemn. It also sounded like she was breaking his heart.

He tensed, though he didn’t cry out. He had yet to feel more than the faintest of pressure, and there was nothing sharp to it. He suspected that as with the Count, he would find himself unable to fight back if she completely turned into one of them. “You are the one I fear for; yours is the endangered soul,” he managed. His fear was directed at the potential loss of her. She would be lost when blood entered her. It was always about blood in the end.

She pulled away quickly, as his words struck a chord. She knew that it was too close for comfort. She found herself wondering how she could have thrown herself into such a horrible task. He _trusted her_! She covered her face, even as she noticed he had closed his eyes tightly so as to not see her ruined. "Don't close your eyes, Jonathan," Mina soothed as she got hold of herself. "Oh, please don’t. There's no need."

He sat up; first, touching his neck to verify there was no mark, and then touching her back. He waited as she shook; he knew she had to move beyond her terror; beyond her urges. He shifted closer to her on the divan, and spread his hands against the fabric of her dress. The shivering of brief tears came through. He only wanted to be there.

They were friends before; they were lovers once they married. They were reunited, and would retain their status as a married couple, no matter how broken the path must be before them.

“I trust you. I will always trust you, Mina Harker; I know your heart,” Jonathan swore. “I will not tell what you almost became. I will not tell how close we were. _Never_.” He had lied to the Count and said those very words; this was not a falsehood this time. He would not vilify her. If she told John or Van Helsing of her own accord, then so much the better. He couldn’t betray her. If she fell, then he would find out and go to her.

He didn’t know what would happen from there, but he could not hurt her. Not again; never again. He still remembered when she was bitten, and the servant was jealous. He still remembered those hands, his hands, wrapped around her throat. It had almost killed him to know he was the cause of any bruising that marred her neck.

“I know, and I can’t hurt you again, when you’ve just survived so much.” Mina said, even as she moved closer and took his hand. She brushed the hair from his eyes. “I love that you cannot see anything but beauty in me, Jonathan. I walk through shadows in this hour; you see a chance of sunlight, despite your troubles.”

“Because I know _you_ , even when I scarcely know myself. I know your strength. You didn't break and weep and scream when you found me. Particular women may have,” he retorted as he softly kissed her lips. He saw in her eyes a need to kiss more passionately, but they both knew it would be dangerous. It was something foreign to her, which gave him pause. They chose a more benign manner of behaviour.

Their bodies moved closer, in unison, until they were almost poised to give in; he kissed her brow chastely; she kissed his ear. They sat in silence, falling still but for the murmur of voices that indicated what was going on in another room. Their foreheads were pressed together, as they gave themselves time.

They would forget; they could briefly pretend that neither had been changed in the past in any way. They could pretend for a few short minutes that they were still as they had been, jittery and nervous on the day of their marriage.

At last, he felt her shiver, as she sought to pull herself back from that metaphorical chasm that she had deftly manoeuvred earlier. She gave a long sigh, as she pushed away some of the horror that sought to tear apart her mind. Her nature had become chimerical even to herself, but she felt this wasn't anything of the end.

He must know that as well. He must wonder what would happen to them when the sun went down. Would she become a bat and soar away, ready for victims? He followed her to the window, and wrapped his arms around her waist. Eventually, she pulled away quietly. He retained possession of her hand, more out of habit; she didn’t want to let go either.

Wordlessly, he gently tugged her hand; he led her back to where they had come from. They would sit on the divan in another way.

This time, they would sit together, but not as they had been. This time, there would be no doubts of restraint, or choices, or wellness. He felt it would be too tempting to put her head on his shoulder, so he rearranged them. She adjusted her dress, so that it was not in the way and therefore would not suffocate him. His head lay in her lap; she massaged his temples; though it was relaxing, it was not meant to place him in a trance.

They tried to focus on each other; they tried to ignore what was in store for them. She tried to fight her inner demon, and hoped not to be tested further. Her desires were in turmoil. They remained in that position, until Seward returned from his consultation. They turned expectantly to face him, even as Jonathan began to sit up.

Jonathan knew he might not have another chance to see her for a few hours. He didn’t know what those hours would bring to either of them, or if she would be the same woman. He shared a quiet look with Mina, and squeezed her hand. “Stay strong,” he whispered as he leaned close to her ear. He looked into her eyes, to be certain she was listening; to be certain she was herself. “I believe in you.” He kissed her cheek before he pulled away.

Seward had taken note of the odd atmosphere as he entered the room, but shook it off. There wasn't time to ask about the cause. He suspected from their positioning that he had been on the brink of interrupting an intimate moment. They were married, after all. In times of heightened emotion, such had been known to occur.

It was simply unexpected in light of the situation. The kiss clinched it, though. He was unaware of what had almost become of them while he was not in the room. He was unaware of what she had almost become, and of the vow they would hold fast to their hearts until the bitter end.

He had a way to protect Jonathan. That was all he knew, and all he would discuss.  
\--

It had all been rather simple, once Seward explained the latest drama to the Professor.

“All of it is true,” Seward was saying as he leaned over the desk. He poked the books on it and flipped through a few pages in each, before sitting them down again. They had been so much help after Lucy died. Why didn’t they predict this? “He returned.”

“We know the incident in the graveyard was from what the Count planted in Jonathan’s psyche through the mesmeric control he had over him,” Van Helsing began warily. “You are absolutely _certain_ , without a shadow of a doubt, that the Count himself was in the cell with the two of you? The creature within Jonathan did not seek to fool you by throwing his voice? There was not mass hysteria?”

While they knew vampires were real and that residual commands were in Jonathan, he was a bit sceptical that a vampire would return as a ghost. Van Helsing obtained a step ladder to reclaim one of the books that he had foolishly placed too high up when he believed this to be over. He had also presumed that, perhaps, John would like to keep one on the topic of vampires for posterity.

He waved John over, and passed him three books, which might be of aid. Each was piled atop another in his arms, before they were eventually placed on the table. With that done, Van Helsing climbed back down.

“I saw him with my own eyes,” Seward continued as he sank to the sofa. He was still exhausted from the blood donations of earlier, and now there were these prolonged horrors. It was rest here, or collapse later. He didn’t feel it was entirely his place to speak of Lucy’s assistance at the crypt until more could be delivered; he wanted Van Helsing to believe him if he must be told. 

“We drove him off with prayer, once Jonathan added his voice to my efforts.” Seward pointed towards the door. “At least one attendant was witness to his outrage at our courage. Jenkins can corroborate the tail end of it. He watched as the Count broke both windows and mirrors!”

He shuddered at the memory of that fight. “I shall never forget his red eyes.” Seward’s voice shook at the last. “Jonathan was exorcised of that other thing that worshipped him. It howled in an unnatural fashion as it perished. The Count can still do more to him to return him to that state. Is that not so?”

In regard to that question, Van Helsing mused that it was. He pondered this information. “We already plan to aid him with holy water in the evening; I was researching the odd historical cases of those that survived such a servitude, and they are rare. The ones which managed to survive their plight remained quite the madmen, raving about all they had endured.”

He wondered if they were also possessed in those cases, but they occurred so long ago there was no tracking down any witnesses for the events. “Some had unnatural abilities, but they were of no matter. You must continue to protect him while I seek answers on destroying the Count once and for all, John!”

Seward nodded. Had he not already stated he would do so repeatedly? He would sound like a broken phonograph if he kept it up. “I will try.”

Van Helsing shook his head. “Do more than try. What do you know of on the grounds that can purify, John? It is very obvious.”

“Holy water,” Seward replied, baffled. He knew it wasn’t that, but it had worked before, and would be used again.

“You are being obtuse, but I will pin that on the blood loss,” Van Helsing chided as he found a particularly delightful passage in one book. Were the author not so terribly vague, it would be all the better. “Or you might not have learned of it. Go to your kitchens, John.”

“Find the salt,” he continued. “The best way to ward off spirits according to the texts would be to pour salt around the focal point of the wrath. Keep Jonathan in a circle of it. It could be multiple ones; it would allow the man leave to hop from one to the next, and signal an attendant. From the way he leapt and pirouetted through the graveyard when he was not himself, we know he is agile enough.”

He spoke as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, though he had never seen it work with his own two eyes. “While you do that, I will seek out other things to aid our cause.” He slammed one book closed, for it only told of ancient curses. “The more complex methods of destruction are best reserved for the Count’s end.”

Could it really be as simple as that? Seward was surprised. He considered it to be witchcraft in an uphill battle against the supernatural. “I will go at once. Thank you, Professor.”

“We must not fail to save both of their souls, John. If we waver, he will claim them despite our earlier efforts,” Van Helsing grimly stated as he stepped away from his books momentarily. “They don’t understand the true danger; my books and these authors did a century or more ago!”

He nodded with sudden resolve, even as Seward awaited more like a bird seeking bread crumbs. “And now, so do I thanks to this attack. So do we. Observe Jonathan as best you can, John. I will keep watch over Mina as she lingers here, while I also seek further answers.”

As Seward turned to go, Van Helsing stopped him. “You may wish to keep a pocket full of salt on your person, to pacify your fears. I will do the same, if you would be good enough to bring some.”

He also gave due consideration to John’s physical health. It would not aid their fight should the man take it upon himself to swoon during a matter of life and death. “You’re still pale, John,” he observed. “Find your own bowl of beef broth before you collapse while you’re down there.”

With that, Seward left to collect both Jonathan, as well as a bag of salt from the kitchens.

In his wake, Van Helsing pondered whether the Count would indeed have two more souls added to his ranks by the time night fell. He patted his pockets; he always kept his cross, he mused, as he pulled it out. He quietly placed it on the table. He also had the last of the holy water about his person, to dole out to those who felt they were hearty enough in spirit to turn from the shadows and return to God’s good graces.

It was earmarked for tonight; as he stared at the fragile vial and its most holy of contents, he wondered if it would be required before then.

He glanced to the door, before returning to his research. He was well armed, should anything unfortunate occur.  
\--

Having been delivered to his cell with a bag of salt, Jonathan attempted to relax. Some of the contents had, in fact, been poured in an unbroken circle all around his bed.

He had jokingly told Seward that this could be his one safe place in the room, provided he didn’t need to go get a drink of water, since the carafe and cup were on the other side of the cell. To Jonathan’s delight, in response he made several circles that led to both there, as well as the door. Jonathan had resisted the urge to scoop up a palm full of it and throw it over his left shoulder.

If the devil lurked nearby, he recalled the superstition that it would blind him. He realised almost too late that it didn’t do the same with ghosts, and only prevented them from approaching. He withdrew his hand, and sighed. He wouldn’t remove his protection.

Especially as he sensed the approach of the one he needed saving from.

Jonathan thought he saw the Count’s face in the gloom, if he stared hard enough at one particular corner. It wasn’t like before. It was more the outline of something that shimmered like oil on water. He was at a loss for how to react.

He pondered baring his teeth and hissing in response. If he did that it would be through his own choice, for the servant was exorcised. It was neither that thing’s choice, nor the Count’s. He opted not to do such, for it was only falling back on a bad habit that never should have been gained in the first place.

The Count flowed out and approached, before coming to a stop. His cape floated this way and that, as though he was underwater. The vampire was dead, and this was Jonathan’s life and his body should he survive another day. He would be his own man. He would aid the others. He stared back at the Count with defiance in his eyes, and a quiet fear.

He guessed the danger in this almost too late, and closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, he allowed his eyes to slide upwards and stare at a stain on the ceiling. Just that brief a look had left him reeling; he had felt as though he could fall into those eyes forever, and lose himself in some manner. He could watch the Count with peripheral vision if he must.

Jonathan’s eyes moved to the edge of the unbroken circle of salt. There was, thankfully, no mesmeric incentive to wipe it away. Slowly, he smiled, as a bit of confidence grew. Should a supernatural force scatter the grains, Seward had provided him with enough to replenish it for hours. 

He moved his eyes over the Count's form coldly, in the manner best befitting of a solicitor prepared to do battle for a sale. He raised a brow, before he turned to stare at the wall. He dared not let his eyes linger another instant, lest the reaction of before occur again in a greater fashion. He felt the Count reading this knowledge from his body language if not his mind, and managed not to shiver at the thought of the latter coming to pass again.

Perhaps, in time, he would sell Glebe House to another just to spite this fiend. If it came into his hands at some future date, he would tear it down brick by brick and stone by stone.

The Count couldn't cross the barrier; Jonathan wouldn't leave its safety. Neither man would move, aside from performing one particular action. Jonathan shoved his hand into the bag; removing it, he threw a fist full of it at him.

It may have appeared ridiculous, but as it passed through Dracula’s chest and scattered, the spirit recoiled in evident pain. Jonathan felt a tiny scrap of victory. He wasn’t entirely helpless in here.

Gradually, the smoke-like essence seeped backwards through the wall, and disappeared. Jonathan heard a low growl pass through his mind. The Count was angry for being slain, denied, and now presumably injured further; Jonathan was simply livid for how his life had been stolen and tainted.

“Stalemate,” Jonathan whispered to himself once he felt it was safe to look from the corner. He knew it wouldn’t be for long; he knew Dracula was doing something else that was likely unseemly. The fact that he was only safe so long as he was confined to certain parts of the cell just made him want to throw his head back and laugh.

He resisted. He mustn’t retreat into grandiose melancholy or hysteria. He had been reduced to tears in the crypt, and shed a few in here earlier, and felt that was enough. He was just a sane man fighting for his soul. He was just a man that had seen unexpected horrors, and would dearly like to keep his soul in one piece, thank you, and become normal. He wanted to reclaim his life.

He wasn’t certain who he was anymore, but he would not be a madman. He no longer had a wolf-like _thing_ seeking lodging inside him. He loved Mina. He just wanted to be a good man again, who deserved Mina’s hand in marriage.

He may no longer entirely be the man that Mina had married, but he was also not an unthinking servant. He loved her with all his heart; she loved him. That creature had been cast out. “I am not going to kneel before you again,” Jonathan shakily vowed. The words ebbed away, when he thought he was alone.

Jonathan’s eyes darted around the room as he heard an evil chuckle. The implication there was that a certain someone thought that the opposite would occur. Jonathan held up the heavy bag of salt like a talisman.

The sound faded, though he could not let down his guard.

With a sigh, Jonathan clutched the bag against his chest like some godforsaken toy a child might cuddle. He didn’t want to be a child that needed protecting; he didn’t want to ponder how helpless he was in here.

He trusted that he and Mina would not become innocent souls turned carrion birds birthed by a reincarnated devil. They would not shed the blood of the helpless; they would not fill the moat that surrounded the Count’s castle with such a grim spectacle. Mina had resisted her bloodlust, had she not? He had exorcised himself with aid.

He should not cause those pale stones to be splashed red with the life giving fluid. He would not fill a charnel house with bodies piled high like cordwood, no matter what the Count showed him in his mind’s eye.

Jonathan’s soul was his to do with as he would. That was the fact of the matter, no matter if the guilt that lingered in his memories was deserved or not. He had been informed that this was to be his battle in the end. It was his choice, if he was strong enough to bear the weight of it.

He was growing confident that in the end, he would warm himself in the daylight, and seek not to shiver in the shadowed corners.


	8. Chapter 8

They were finally gone; Mina almost sank to the floor in the relief, as a temptation was gone from her. She tried to fool herself into believing that relief at their departure was stemming from the knowledge that Jonathan would shortly be safe.

She knew better than that.

It was through Jonathan’s honesty that she had seen the truth of what she had been pondering. Those urges should not be a part of her, and she knew she should have said something to Seward, if not to Van Helsing, once he had returned. Still, she hadn’t. She knew Jonathan wouldn’t tell. She knew how he did so hate to break a promise, for she almost knew him better than she knew herself.

She dreaded that she was alone, for however brief a time. Jonathan had proven to be vulnerable when he was by himself. He had also become her anchor in this whole affair in a way that could never have been calculated. He could see through her lies, even when they were small and unintended. When they dealt with the matter of her soul, he was vital.

She could see through him just as easily, and knew it was from being so close to him prior to their marriage; before his disappearance. They had grown from naïve children that went hand in hand and rolled about in fields, into adults that eagerly discussed their plans to see the world, but only together. Such was not to be when it came to contracts and business ventures, of course.

Mina felt herself growing lonely, in an aching way that was foreign to her nature. It was odd in light of how easily, how lovingly, Jonathan had been as he was forced to go. She could blossom when left to her own devices. She had done so, as she sought to learn the truth of Jonathan’s whereabouts. Rubbing her arms, she looked towards the door that led to what had become Van Helsing’s stomping grounds.

Mina knelt beside the hearth, tossing in extra kindling as the fire almost went out. The room had begun to feel as though it was closing in on her, and she wanted to busy herself with mundane tasks. The gas lights flickered, but refrained from dying. It was more of a nuisance than anything else; it would bother the others less than her.

She paused, and waited to see that they would stay lit, before resuming her thoughts. She felt a reluctance to concern the Professor in her troubles; there soon came a niggling fear of his reprisal; a coiling anger not her own at the destruction of Lucy, and the ruination of another’s plans.

These things entwined around her soul like the snake from the first garden. It coiled and whispered of things that would be sin and damn her to the lake of fire. The anger was beginning to bubble over unexpectedly. She turned away from the door, and rejected all thoughts of visiting the man, and throwing herself upon his mercy.

Her breathing grew slower, and calmed. She would keep her own counsel, just as the Count had advised. She had thought to do so in the graveyard. She was forgetting her words to Jonathan of but a few minutes before, and felt as though she was surely under a spell to have listened to him. Or was she now? She realised that every remembrance of the feel of the comfort they brought each other was growing hazy.

Not just that, but the corners themselves had begun to grow darker. There should not be a storm today, save for the unnatural one of earlier. There was nothing truly wrong with the gas lights. It seemed as though the room might be filling with mist, though the colour was wrong. She placed her hand cautiously on the knob of the door, and noted it remained cool to the touch.

It was not smoke; there was no smell, and it was barely in view. There was no fire, but from the hearth, and the chimney was not backing up. She strode to the window, and gazed upon the grounds. It was absurdly cheerful in spite of her ruminations. The sun was out, and there was no fog.

Was it indeed a manifestation of the Count?

Why did that thought give her a thrill of joy? And if it _was_ the mark of the Count, was he the one pulling all love and warmth from her, or was that sin her own? Was that the creature growing within her, and waiting for her passing to seize control entirely? Was he pulling the heat from the room? Was he trying to scare her into further complicity?

Yes, to the question of heat. That could be quantifiably confirmed, at least, for she could see her own breath puffing out.

She felt a hand touching her shoulder blades, cold as ice. It was so cold that she gave a small gasp of both wonder and shock. For a moment, it trailed lower, insidious in its attempted conquest of her. Then, it was gone. It behaved as a lover; it felt like a cad seeking to take advantage of her at the same time. It was callous and arrogant; it was heartless.

She sensed all these things from that brief touch. She whirled, seeking to gain an audience with something close enough to touch herself; her dress flared wildly as she turned first to one corner, and then the next. There was nothing to see. She felt disappointment, and concern.

Next came horror about her state of mind; eagerness for that touch to have been Lucy, when it could never have been. She would never have been so wretched in her manner. Everything left her confused, as to what came from her at this stage of her infection.

She must think of Jonathan; John; the Professor. She must clasp tightly to her soul, and think of the good she would lose were she to change. Her mind whirled, and she feared she might swoon. “Don’t close your eyes,” she whispered to herself. This could go down an even darker path were she not awake to see. If she turned away and ignored it, it would grow worse.

She shivered; no, this wasn’t over. She felt a tug of something illicit. There soon came the sense of something that yearned to be broken free of its moorings, and its confinement. With shaking hands, she pulled the ring from its hiding place, and held it to her chest. It was almost like there were little whispers within the jewel, though she knew she was only being a romantic. She gently placed it on the table.

There was a change within her, and mortality’s self-control dwindled. It was as though she could be honest with herself at last. Something twisted must rise to the surface of the gem.

It felt alive with him in the room, before she sat it down; it felt like a cold stone before. It was the key. It was the anchor. A marvellous feeling grew inside her chest; she suddenly had the idea to slide this on Lucy’s hand, and let the Count’s power flow through and revive her.

First, she must accept it herself, must she not? Her thoughts grew cloudy, and began to turn wicked, as though directed by the hand of an unseen villain.

She heard whispers in her ear, growing louder. She fought to keep from sinking into them like quicksand, or she would become overwhelmed. It was achieving the wrong type of clarity for her the more she felt this decadent sensation dancing across her soul. Was it truly the soft whispers of the dead or was it her own sickening imagination? Her greatest hope was that Lucy herself would tell her it was the right thing to do.

She must give in; she must feast; she must cavort and take part in unholy practices; she must do it. **_Do it. Bring her back. Damn yourself to life everlasting._** The feelings crashed over her. The words were dimly realised to not be emanating from her mind.

No, she thought in horror. That was suicide if she did that, was it not? In all her teachings, it felt that it was so. She heard a voice call her name. She grew wide-eyed; frantic; she was afraid to hear it again, yet overjoyed that it had reached her. Mina’s voice shook as she whispered one word that meant the world to her. “Lucy.”

She felt her familiar hand on her shoulder, as though she was shaking her back to her senses. It felt like Lucy was desperate to tell her something. Was this real, too? And then that warmth of joy was wrenched from her as Lucy’s essence was ripped away. Mina found herself reaching for a body that was not there in physical form.

Mina stood there, shaking, in the centre of the room. She found that she had grown overly fearful of her own mind, even while wondering about her dear friend.

Mina slowly turned, even as she felt the gentlest of breezes move through her hair; it had occurred at the exact moment that she wondered if her mind was turning upon itself, and she knew that the window was not open.

From which direction, which voice, did her friend’s truly originate? She had been pulled away from her, so what was real? Mina desired to leave the room. She also desired to stay and wait for some revelatory appearance to occur before her eyes.

It was Lucy’s voice she had heard; it was Lucy’s distress and fear let loose in one little word, but it was not, at the same time. She would swear to it that her friend was there and had said her name, though one of those soft sounds carried with it a wrongness. Even as she perceived such a dissonance, she knew. Even as she heard that thrum beneath the words, almost like the beating of her own heart, it changed. No; _she_ changed.

Mina struggled to turn back the dark tide that was rising within her; it danced and swirled through her, like a living thing. This hunger was itself practically a separate and malignant entity. She wanted to give in and slake a deepening thirst with John’s hot blood. He could be the first bitten when her fangs sprouted, now that she had chosen not to touch Jonathan so soon.

Even as she struggled to part herself from the evil thoughts that crept through her head, she knew. It would be so easy to bring John to her. It would be his honour to assist her, she thought. He could understand what Lucy had felt; what she felt. She realised the path her thoughts were going, and tried to stop. No, it wouldn’t be _honourable_ ; it wouldn’t be _sensible_ ; it would be the cruelest of betrayals! Her thoughts were an ouroboros. No matter how she fought, what she thought, it all came back the same. 

It could be a gift; a gift that would originate from Lucy. If she changed and brought back Lucy by devious means, it would all fall into place. Much like the Count had desired Jonathan do for him, Mina could do willingly for her friend. Could she pry loose the words from the darkest pits of her soul? Could she intrude upon Jonathan, after changing? Could she place him into her power? He had said he would not reveal her.

No, for he would know her nature when she touched him. He would struggle against her enthrallment. Mina could imagine the horror yet to come if she chose that broken road to tread. She could still hear the words Lucy had spoken in the graveyard ringing through her mind and spoke almost unknowing. Something brushed the back of her neck from behind, struggling to be noticed. She ignored it.

She chuckled to herself; another hand sought to rule her emotions. “Life is pain and slow decay. You were right, Lucy. The opposite could feel exquisite. It shall be everlasting in its simplicity,” she murmured. She covered her mouth in horror at her words, and felt fear at the movement of something dark in the corner. She thought there was an outline of a face in the dark, but it was gone too quickly for her to be assured of its reality.

Lucy was not the one perceived. The desperate invisible being that wanted her attention was certainly her. **_‘See yourself as I would have, and do not resist. Become more than yourself; become what she was, and what I shall be again,’_** a dark voice whispered through her mind.

Her human instincts screamed at her to retreat. She rose with the intent to gain aid, and found herself moving the opposite of her wishes. Rather than go to the door, and raise a ruckus, she moved forward in a languid manner. Another will made her want to know more; the Count’s purpose moved her feet. There was something in the mirror that she must see. And when she did, something told her that she would not have the strength to turn away.

She could see herself as she would surely be if she became like him. Wicked. _Cruel_. There was beauty before her in the glass; it was everlasting and eternal, but tempered by a schism of unnatural life. She could see just how vile she would appear, with blood upon her lips and dripping off her chin. She couldn’t look away, as the truth of it penetrated the horrible glee.

The crimson stain surely came from a fountain of gore. Had she been feasting upon a surfeit of victims? How many had she known? How many had she loved? Surely she couldn’t become that monster! That dress was no nightgown; it was a burial shroud. Would Jonathan care that she was so changed? Could he resist her? If he was free, he could run from such a sight; she might hunt him down.

Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears as she contemplated such a world for her. She didn't know what to say; she only knew that she didn't want to view this monstrousness. This obscene life was not for her. Mina shook her head in mute denial, overcome momentarily, and feeling as though she would succumb to the weakness of vertigo. If she did, what should become of her? What would she be when she at last revived?

Mina fell to her knees as the grip briefly loosened, and the vision faded from the glass. Her senses were reeling. The presumed gradual seduction of before instead rocked her to her core and she knew what a violation it was; she screamed ‘no’ in her mind at the sight, over and over until she could push it away from her. The image of her teeth piercing and rending flesh would haunt her.

Mina knew with every breath she took how this process would surely go, if she were transformed. She shouldn’t know. She had never truly witnessed it; she had not yet undergone it. She hadn’t asked the men; she hadn’t even seen sweet Lucy when she took her last breath. Even as she knew, she experienced it all as though it was truly happening to her body.

The heart would keep pace as mortality flickered like dying embers in a sooty and vacant hearth. It would roar in the ears, slow and stop. The warmth of life would be extinguished, and then gradually be replaced with the cold of the grave. Warmth and heat and life would be stripped away from her flesh and bone. The stilling blood would cool; it would need replacing with the warmth of others.

The first taste would be the best of all. There would be a sweetness to it. Her flesh must surely twist and tangle with John’s body in unbridled and exquisite frenzy of debasing passion, with the gluttony of the damned rising as she sated herself. She took a shaking breath. The want was not her own, she insisted. Or else that man would be Jonathan.

The image of her teeth piercing and rending flesh would haunt her.

As she began to tear herself away from the edge of the abyss, more occurred. Mina clutched her chest; she felt a sharp pressure. A phantom stake was being pressed to her bosom. “Stop it,” she whispered. This was madness. She managed to look up and saw the form and visage of the Count, but more an apparition than a perceived man walking amongst the living. Jonathan’s description had not done him justice.

He was leaning over her, for kneeling at her side must be beneath him. He wanted her soul; she knew this without either of them speaking. If she took his hand willingly, she was gone from this world. She would be his protégé; his heir; his vessel for his corruption. His hand almost brushed her cheek, but she crawled from his touch. Wide-eyed, she almost fell back into the horror as she looked upon him. She knew she must not look into his eyes, but it was too late.

Having lost Jonathan, the Count would have _her_. That was the reason behind this sorcery. He faded in and out even as he rippled and floated, for his concentration was focused on her torment. It may have been gentler than Jonathan’s, but it was captivating nonetheless. He had shown her what she could be, if she joined him. It induced utter soul rending terror, for the bringer of her bite had perished. He would make it pleasurable in the next illusion; he would account for the pesky conscience. He would bring her to him.

The mirror began first to undulate, and then to ripple. There were wild vibrations beneath it, as though it could not contain the true scope of power being forced into it. Mina turned away quickly, with her arm protectively at eye level. Would it shatter, as had occurred upon his prior defeat with her husband’s desperate prayers? When the reverberation ceased, she looked at the Count. No; his mind sent to her that this way, it would be far more vivid.

Darkness moved across the glass, its veiled form exquisite this time. She knew the truth. Once she knew of the blood foretold, she knew she could not clasp it to herself. It was a tainted beauty held up before her. Could she shatter now that veiled and damned reflection? She couldn’t move, as a strange energy crackled. Could she save herself? Must she listen to the soft whispers? Must she fall? Must she be damned? This was her face in the glass, after all, however monstrous the vision.

The vision moved as she did, this way and that, languid and vivacious in equal measures. Though the movement was not of her own making, it felt like it was her doing. It felt like her desires. There was a beauty in each action; a loveliness greater than any she had seen. It moved, as though led by another’s commands.

Mina recognised some of those movements, then, and wished she could not. It was when she was taken in by the lies, and the melody, and the sin; it was when she held so tightly to the servant. As the illusion danced to a tune only it could hear, something more was changed. There was the silhouette of her; of Jonathan; of them, moving as lovers in the graveyard.

He was possessed by the servant; she, consumed by a darker force even as she directed her energy against the man she loved. She lied to him; she changed his mind, and made him vulnerable. She did long for it in that hour, but that was from the bite’s repercussions; his touch had been as exhilarating as it was foreign and upsetting.

Every gesture became a dance with the devil, should she desire such. Every action was a diabolical sonata, just for him, just made by her, if she said yes. It looked human, unlike before, though she knew that it was not. It was a demon that twisted before her; when she crawled closer and touched it, the glass felt hot, as though lit by the flames that would await her, should she rescind the claim upon her soul.

The thought left her trembling, and she was uncertain as to whether it was from terror or desire. She felt the Count at her back, expectant of her fall. Just say yes; just go to the grave for a short while; just embrace this path, and become more; just be his, to use at his command. Just betray those she loved, and wallow in the joy of sin.

He thought her corruption easy; he thought she was the weakest of them. He thought doubts would change her. He did not know her when she was infuriated. He did not see her when passion ruled her. He did not know her strength.

Her fingers remained where they were, outstretched and still, even as she knew her own mind. She would not heed the call; she would not be the lure that drew the others in; she would not throw Jonathan back to the wolves; she would not damn her friends, who fought so hard, even as they failed to save Lucy.

This temptation was paltry in the end; it had not the former strength of terror that shocked her very core. It may have briefly wooed; it may have briefly sung within, but that hymn at last fell silent; the chorus was no more. This temptation may take her breath away with its beauty and its grace, but it was not what she construed as her own desires.

They were empty echoes of the Count’s. In her hesitation, the Count would perceive his victory. Mina’s expression was quiet; it was as still as a pond, not a ripple did mark her face. Inwardly, she found herself beginning to smile. Her soul was still her own, if she found him vile.

It was her choice. He was hanging on her every breath, wasn’t he? She did not covet the illusory path, which stretched out, saturnine and melancholy. It would surely be so at the end, with a hammer and a stake the only escape. She had felt that ending, through him.

She did not worship the devil, or move to the whims of a monster. She would not let another possess her body. She would not perform necromancy; she would not raise the dead. She moved her fingers from the glass. Even before she did, the pane did lose its heat; even before she did, the burning died away.

Until that second she hadn't realised that the fires of change burned through her veins as well. They had waited for her despair; they had waited for his sign; they had waited for her assured descent into the pit. A sigh of relief escaped her, then. The flames once stoked quickly faded away.

There was a change within the room. Before she spoke, he knew her answer. Before she spoke, she already rejoiced in holding the darkness to the light, and seeing it for what it was.

Ghostly arms wrapped slowly around her, then; they weren’t real, she thought at first; they were another trick. No, there was real comfort there; she finally deduced that it was only that Lucy’s spirit sought to deflect the Count’s attentions. She smiled softly to herself, once she noted that it was so. To feel the woman again was divine. To know she was at her side was breathtaking. Whatever power had torn her away had lost some of its ferocity. It wasn’t entirely brought low; there was still a demon in her view.

There was a kiss on the back of her neck, just as real as it was impulsive and kind. Had Lucy been there in the flesh, they surely would have laughed about the man so misreading her. Even so, Mina was forced to recall the nighttime attentions at another time, with that undead Lucy nuzzling her throat; she could still smell her scent, her perfume.

Mina sensed her all around, and focused on such beauty within as had been stolen by the Count. She felt the life of that woman, once so playful; previously, it was eclipsed. Mina clothed herself in strength, even as she made to rise to her feet as best she could. She armoured herself in the love as best as she could, if only in her mind.

“You want my soul to burn as much as I want Lucy,” she softly uttered. While she struggled to gather her thoughts and proclaim them, she still felt resolved. She wanted to take Lucy’s hand, but knew that was impossible.

She must be brave. She must deny him with words, and not mere thoughts. He must understand. He must know her. He must learn of the woman whom he had crossed the moment he stole Jonathan away from her. He had caused her pain with his lies. He must know the enemy he had made when he changed Lucy; when he hurt Jonathan, and left him with a second and madder entity.

“I loved her. The one beneath Van Helsing’s stake was not her…her soul would rest, were you not assaulting me,” Mina forced herself to pronounce. She heard a hiss of anger, but it did not emanate from her, as she had forced that aspect back; she did not scream in terror, and yet only remained still. She did not respond in kind. She held herself firm, so she wouldn’t give in and rush at the Count’s spirit.

She meant not to embrace it; she perceived she would strike at it. She knew she would only pass through his dark mist. She suspected any touch of his from a willing hand would be an error. It would lead to her damnation. _‘Fight…as I never could, Mina.’_

Mina began to know just how much larger than herself this was. What she had just endured was but a fantasy crafted by the devil’s hand. He lived in a world of shadows, and would draw others to that fate. She could not do the same. Some of her terror did creep back, though not entirely for him. Her humanity must prevail; she must not lose her soul. “If we shadows have offended,” she mused with some uncertainty. Her hysteria was leashed, though it must surely bubble up in time.

In this time, and in this hour, it was bearable. It did not make her less. It told her that she had not lost. That aspect of virulent terror kept her on her toes. She took a breath and centred herself once more.

She looked back at him. Before, a glance did say he was at the precipice of victory. She saw his gradual realisation that the opposite was more in line with reality. “My answer is what you desire; my answer following these touches,” she softly began. “My answer, dear Count— _accursed_ Count, hopefully thrice damned Count…is no. _No_. I will not bring you back. I will not damn myself.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke. 

She would not run; she would not throw the ring to him. She would not risk being the one to part with it, and thereby lose their last way to ridding themselves of him. Quietly, she moved to another room; knowing his dark mist floated near, and he easily observed her actions, she plucked up a candlestick. She used that to push it into the drawer once again.

“I turn from you,” she reiterated almost serenely in her fury when he moved a pace closer. “All will turn from you. Your acolytes are gone; they are in another country, seducing other men; your kind thrives on sullying the virtue of untold scores. I have a cross in the drawer, should you return to as you were,” Mina explained with great care. “Dear Count, there is still more salt in the kitchens,” she reminded him almost sweetly.

“You couldn’t have Lucy’s soul forever; a stake freed her, no matter how horrifying the act. Jonathan is _lost_ to you, as you once caused him to be from me. Your lies of old have brought you ruin, and you become this ghostly state. You must have lives; you must have deaths. You find that you must control us all like the figures on a board for chess. You could not have _him_. You shall not have _me_ ,” Mina informed him.

She let him see the anger that surged behind her outer calm. She let him know she was not one to be trifled with. “In the cell, you were driven back by my husband and my friend. And so you turn to me in my presumed weakness, thinking me an addled _child_ that will listen to any voice cast into the wind, or succumb to the slightest provocation. I will not crawl away to rot with your kind in a foul _mockery_ of a grave!”

She kept her voice low despite her determination, for she feared others might overhear her declaration. Unknowing and unkind onlookers would believe her to be mad. Despite her words, he had been close. He had been so close to true success that it frightened her, but she would not give him leave to see that fear. She knew how best to conclude this conversation between them, one-sided though it might be. “ _Begone_ , Count Dracula.”

She snarled the words like an epithet, but it was a human fierceness, with a human’s anger. The blackness didn’t beg entrance to her soul. It was retreating from her strength of will, as it had sought to cover her mind like spilled ink soaking across the page of a book. It quaked and fled with true resistance. His stern gaze was on her, but he remained quiet. There was a light of respect in his eyes, at how she managed to resist his influence. She still felt his power, rippling in the air.

Soon enough, that emotion rippled across his face; it transmuted from stifled; thwarted; into a red glow of fury that said he would not stop here. Whatever he had done to her was ending, yes, but he would find a way in. He would strike at whatever weakness he could.

Mina owed Lucy peace. Her friend had never deserved the torment of watching herself wander each night seeking the blood of the living.

Mina owed Count Dracula _nothing_. She could see that clearly. Unable to touch the dead, she chose to stay among the living. “I will not be that thing,” Mina murmured as she touched the mirror once again, which had been the cause of so much upset earlier. There was only her face in the glass, human and passionate, and not a veiled caricature of uncertain whims.

The coolness was soothing. This spell was ended. She could almost feel Lucy’s hand cover her own, though she was unable to clasp it in return; she could almost hear her begging to not give in for a second, whatever else he showed her. Those soft whispers were so far away, but Mina understood. She knew herself. She would not back down.

**_‘Only for now do I part from you, Mrs. Harker,_** ’ he corrected. The brushing of her mind with his was almost vicious, though his words were civil. She shuddered at the sensation of her most private thoughts being invaded by another. He savoured that reaction, small though it was.

His defeat could not be heard in those tones as he continued, but his arrogance certainly was. Even in death, he knew he must surely succeed in gaining a host or a minion. **_‘All fall in time, no matter the protest. Your husband will be mine soon enough, just as you will become one of the elect.’_**

He drew his cape to himself; the mist once in the corners of the room now pulled back. With that, he seemed to both walk and float as he poured through the corners of the door, and outward. She opened the door; she caught a glimpse of him as he flowed through the wall across the hall. Quietly, taking great care not to slam it, she closed the door. The ache pushed aside now did rise. What she hadn’t let herself feel before, finally came loose.

Mina shook like a leaf, both in reaction to her actions, and at those words. Angry tears came, streaming down her face. Still, she felt freer than she had upon his death. She had hope. These tears were not from desperation, but a catharsis brought forth from railing back against someone that wanted her soul.

She became uncertain and worried that if she left this room, then what she had endured would be writ across her face. It was a personal matter, and so strove to calm her breathing even as she located a handkerchief. “Thank you, Lucy,” Mina sighed. She loved her for her staying at her side. Even as Mina resumed peering quietly into the corners, wary of another intrusion, she felt as though the room was lighter. The gas lights brightened. The warmth returned, and her chills passed.

‘ _Mina_ ,’ that familiar ghostly voice sighed proudly in happiness. It was distant; it was straining to be heard as it drifted away.

“Lucy,” Mina breathed again. Her hand touched the wall, because she guessed she had passed through there to leave. It was that direction where the draft in the room went. Could she feel her friend’s hand if she focused? Her fingers brushed something, but it didn’t stay on anything of substance. It was wondrous to touch her again; it had been beautiful to be embraced by her.

There was an ember in the ashes of this day’s travails. If there were even a speck of hope, they would fight. They were the embers that glowed in the winter, when all hope seemed lost, and the warmth of life and love dwindled. It was nonsensical, but it must do. They would live. They would see the sun rise again after the ritual. They would not become creatures of the night.

In this state, she wasn’t fully listening for the sound of footsteps; she would have expected a knock to come, as was proper, if she had heard them. The door opened before she was fully prepared, and Seward walked in. Mina wasn’t ready for the company, and was grateful she hadn’t shrieked in her surprise after what just occurred. She pulled herself together.

“I’m not suitable, John. You forgot to knock,” she chided softly, though her voice warbled. She turned to wipe her face of one last tear. She almost wanted to laugh.

“I’m sorry, that was rude. What’s wrong? Has anything occurred? I just came from Jonathan—he—he’s protected by the salt, and I felt you should know,” Seward wondered. He moved closer, almost prepared to gather her to him if it was allowed, if she required comfort. He smiled in a mild confusion, presuming it was improper when she stepped away. He shouldn’t have been so bold, he supposed.

No, he realised seconds later. She was trying to recover from something. It felt like more than merely allowing her a private moment for grief.

“Just a dream of Lucy; a figment of days gone,” Mina found herself saying with a sad smile. It wasn’t really a lie; that was Lucy, as she had once known her, before the terror.

Mina would protect John from becoming vulnerable to the Count; though, really, he may already be, having aided Jonathan. There was a mild frustration in her after all she had survived, which must find a release. “Oh, don’t you miss her as much as me, John? What wouldn’t you do to have her back?” She desired Lucy as herself, and not as an undead fiend. “What would you do to enable her to walk with us in sunlight once again?”

Despite all that she had said to the Count, it was the human Lucy tempting her most of all, through no fault of that spirit’s own making. She knew she wouldn’t act on it. The danger had passed there. These were just words. She was merely venting. She did not desire to change, or to force that yoke back onto her dearest of all friends.

“Do you mean as a pact with the devil himself?” Seward carefully asked. “Or with Dracula? Either way a soul is lost, and you know where I’ve been. You know what Jonathan was shown, or at least a bit we spoke of earlier,” he reasoned. He had read some of Van Helsing’s books. He could only guess what had happened. “There is always a cost. One person would not be as they had been. If it were as she was last through some trick of nature, she would never see light again. Or she would be indefinably alien to us.”

Mina sighed, tired. “You’re right, of course, John. Thank you for putting things in perspective.” She looked up as he took her hand and wiped a stray tear from her cheek with a thumb. There were tears in his eyes. She was upset that she had struck such a nerve in _him_. “We’ll both be a mess if you start, when I’ve just stopped,” she gently chided him.

Seward smiled at the comment before he warmed to the previous topic and spoke the rest of what was on his mind. He struggled with his own emotion. “I am just as tempted to pull free that stake and cry, and welcome her back into my arms! I feel we were almost of the same mind.” When Mina nodded, he continued.

“No matter if the cost is all of our souls or our lives?” He wondered as he pulled her close. “I…almost sense that I would let her bite me. I almost did before the Professor intervened. I would let her replenish herself, and I would know she was well, and sated. I _do_ know that it is sinful to consider such matters. I won’t do it. Will you? Or do you wish either of us to renew that part of the horror?” 

Seward knew that if it boiled down to it, and there was a choice to be made, he might make the wrong one if that aspect of Lucy hadn't made herself manifest in the crypt. He knew which was really her. Had Mina been offered such a Faustian choice as to resurrect her friend? Seward wondered, from the look upon her face.

“No,” Mina firmly replied at last. “No. Thank you…I have had a weak moment, as well as a firm one. I know myself. There is an inner truth that was not understood before.” She could and had seen reason earlier. She moved to hug John back when he offered. She saw his uncertainty.

He pulled back, and gazed upon her once again. “Did something happen to continue what previously occurred? Was it like Jonathan’s visitation?” Had she been forced to perform some ungodly action?

Mina smiled at the concern. “Partially, but not so violent as that,” she confirmed. If he had not wrecked the asylum, then the Count was not so tempestuous in her regard.

“I can see that whatever he did, you said no, or you wouldn’t look as you do,” Seward carefully speculated. She would be far paler. She would be seeking a coffin, or a dark place to hibernate. “You wouldn’t still be here. You were alone?” Mina shook her head, and his eyes widened. “Was she…?”

“Yes,” Mina whispered as tears began anew. “Yes, John. There is life beyond such a fate as was thrust upon her.”

Seward squeezed her hand in sympathy and waited for her to recover. He ignored the sensitivity of those wretched bruises, and was going to consider them temporary badges of honour. “I won’t ask if you don’t want me to. If you feel that it is too private to discuss.” Was there more? What had the Count shown her? As with Jonathan, he presumed he would never get the details of any visions. What had that fiend done to her?

“Thank you again, John,” Mina smiled as she leaned forward. She meant for her head to rest on his shoulder. Instead, he held her tight; she rested against his chest; neither felt like moving. They found they needed it. They could give each other a brief time of consolation. They knew what the other felt, even if they could not bring themselves to speak of it. Finally, they pulled away at the same time, almost apologetic.

As they opened their mouths to speak at the same time, they paused; another voice was calling out. Each came to the realisation it was only Van Helsing casting aspersions on long dead authors. A book slammed shut; the sound of the ladder moving began again. Mina gleaned that her assistance was likely required. Two minds could find answers within those pages and with far more rapidity than one that was weary from overexertion.

Although, all had grown silent again; perhaps she was mistaken. “I find I must go to aid the Professor. I shouldn’t be alone again. I know that, and he could use another pair of eyes,” she explained.

She did know that it was safer for her soul; she also knew that she could handle herself, when parlour tricks were at play with the Count and his illusions. Mina felt as though John was becoming almost a brother to confide in. In the past day alone, she had required physical comfort from both Jonathan and John. It was becoming a pattern that might become scandalous to outsiders’ eyes if they kept to that.

“You shouldn’t,” Seward agreed fervently. “You can tell me anything if the Professor seems too cold or too busy to confide in.” When she kissed his cheek, grateful for the offer, he almost blushed. With an awkwardly polite bow, he soon made apologies for being a bad host.

He had several more patients to see to on this fine afternoon; however, he would drop in on her from time to time if one of them should be averse to keeping company with a doctor.  
\--

Just as the door swung closed behind Seward, Van Helsing left the room he had turned into a makeshift library. While he had not called out to Mina, he had heard when she was no longer otherwise detained. His entrance was so abrupt that Mina gasped in surprise before she could catch herself. She may have thought his nose would still be in a book. In fact, he still had two in his arms, and now put them down on the chair.

Mina knew the men in her life needed to recall their manners. It was best to knock when a woman was the only one present, even within the depths of an asylum! She knew the Professor rarely cared for formalities when the drama was high, and so didn’t comment on the lack of announcing himself when she might be indisposed; John, in contrast, had merely had a lot on his mind.

“Jonathan was almost used. You know this already, for they spoke to you first, ” Van Helsing began. Of course they had informed her on the way to him; the rooms were connected. “It wasn’t until John left to gain the salt as protection for Jonathan that I realised you must have been next. I understood too late. John doesn’t know all that occurred, does he?” He gazed at her coolly, before he nodded more to himself than to her. “Your husband does know?”

“There is no need to worry about me being as he was,” Mina assured him. Granted, wouldn’t that be something she would also say if she were under the Count’s influence? “I gave John the barest of admissions, but he’ll worry.” This man was intelligent. Of course he suspected her, even if she had not done anything untoward in public, or gone weeping to his side. At the last, she inclined her head. “He will.” He knew of her once fragmented state, and would hear of this. He remained at her side, even in that spiritual sickness.

A taut smile appeared on Van Helsing’s face. “I know that. If our foe were successful, you would have leapt upon my throat. If he were successful, I would have found you bent over John’s body, feasting.” She would have found her way to a coffin even in the hours of daylight, for she was a resourceful woman. “I would have observed you altering Jonathan’s will. You would have snarled like your late friend before a cross.”

Mina gestured for him to sit, even as she nodded once in acknowledgement of the fact. “It was close, Professor. He wove an admirable spell over my senses,” she admitted. “I only made Jonathan seek sleep more than he wished. I do not want to revel in such depravities as the Count doled out myself,” she continued. “Thank you,” she sighed. “For your vigilance, and your studious nature in finding the answers.”

Van Helsing pondered their situation, even as he chose to remain standing. He had kept this woman in the dark before, and so Lucy had been transformed, and Mina had been bitten. He had kept her sequestered in these rooms without meaning to, putting off things despite his knowledge; he was focused on Jonathan’s plight, and Mina was almost taken unawares. He had his own part in the near success of their foe.

He had not confronted Mina when he might have, and now pondered their current situation. “Would you care to assist me in my research?” He asked at length, as though to extend an olive branch. She would learn preventative measures at the same instant as he did. She could be safer if not left unattended, as had been decided hours ago in the graveyard. From her face, he could read she had already entertained such a notion, and was firm on sticking to the idea.

“Thank you for asking, for my answer is yes,” Mina replied politely. She was troubled by the near miss, and wished to be of some assistance to them; she did not care to be assigned the task without her input. It was her choice to accept his offer.

They looked up at a knock; from the sound of it, John had returned. “After he has completed his rounds, I shall go with him,” Mina promised him. “Until then, you shall find me at your side, excepting of the minutes in which he sees to my continued livelihood,” she instructed with a tremulous smile.

“Give us time to speak; we won’t be but a moment, John,” she called to him. It was sweet of him, even if he had only just stepped out; perhaps an appointment was cancelled. She heard a murmured acknowledgement, and guessed he had chosen one of the chairs out there to wait in. Having known the barest minimum of the situation, had she not spoken, then she feared he would do some further injury to himself and endeavour to kick in the door. 

“You covet the ring,” Van Helsing added quietly. “Jonathan did not have it, nor did I. John thought I did. I chose not to correct him.” He finally told her why. “I had faith you would resist.” It was more than that; if she were reluctant to be in the same room as him as earlier frequent looks had expressed, then he couldn’t have done much to defend her. Had she not resisted, and had she succumbed and become one of the undead, he may have done his best to find her, and rectify his mistake.

He realised that many could have fallen if his gamble had not paid off. The danger would have increased in number. He should have kept her in the room with him even in the face of her acrimony, though became distracted for all the study that was warranted. He should have pressed the issue, even if they came to heated words.

Mina caught herself beginning to draw away from him, as though he were a threat that must be taken care of with a cunning hand. She opened the drawer, and used the same candlestick as before to lift out the object of discussion. At last, she dared to hold it, and did not fear. She touched the sharpness that studded the jewel of the ring, and did not feel a demand upon her soul.

He had faith in her? Yes, to confront her in this manner, surely he must. If he had only informed Mina of the true danger, perhaps she would not presently be regarding him with a suspicion that was not fully unmerited. She would not have gone to solitary war with a diabolical nature that wished her to give in to temptations, and shed her humanity.

If only he had trusted her in the beginning as more than Jonathan’s wife who might weep and worry. If he had trusted her not to panic or faint, and explained the danger, and she in turn explained a snippet of that to Mrs. Weston, then perhaps Lucy would still be alive. This was a dangerous path to walk. What if's could see her damned or driven to becoming a permanent mad fixture in this place if they directed her towards the hatred of the one man she could confide in that might save her, as well as Jonathan.

Mina thought these things in the seconds it took to draw a breath. She thought these things, but knew better than to say them. It would not matter if she did. If she hadn’t known of his regrets, and if she had not already pushed her demons back, perhaps she would not do the right thing. She would have hidden this until she found time to use it as a beacon; she would have set fire to his papers; she would have hurt people; their very salvation would be put in true jeopardy.

She had forgiven him. Van Helsing had not considered her mettle, but she knew that he would no longer discount her in their crusade. It was just as the Count had learned not to dismiss her within the past hour; although, perhaps, there was a greater courtesy in the man before her. There was far less ire in his attention.

She could see this knowledge beginning to dawn in Van Helsing’s face. “Your own silence could have spelled disaster,” Mina observed almost in answer to his thoughts. She shook her head, and gently placed the ring in his wrinkled palm. Quietly, gently, she closed his fingers around it. She almost couldn’t say so much at his last admission; all animosity had passed away from her face in the twinkling of an eye.

“Coveted, no more,” she whispered as she crossed her arms to her chest. A chill had melted within her in increments earlier, but there was still more to do. It was said more to herself than to him. The link between her and it felt tenuous at best.

Coveted be thy name no more, Mina mused to herself. She recalled what the creature had once said through Jonathan. She recalled its braggart’s nature, devoted and insane. Neither she nor Jonathan would worship Count Dracula anew.

Van Helsing looked from her to it, as though to be certain it was the correct one. That was only second nature, and not true suspicion of her actions, she perceived. He was a penitent man. He partially bowed to her in gratitude before he stepped aside. He no longer blocked her path. The tension in the room melted.

Mina heard a sound outside, as though a bit of furniture had been rearranged. She knew it was only John at the door, returning to be assured of her continued well-being. She touched Van Helsing’s arm. “Keep him in the dark with this matter, Abraham. He needs to protect Jonathan, without distraction.”

“I will,” Van Helsing promised. Just as John saw to her husband, Van Helsing would see to helping her in the continued matter of her soul's freedom. He suspected he had little to do in her regard. “I will wait around the corner until you have concluded your meeting.” He would be close enough to hear any untoward sounds, should anything unforeseen occur. Mina squeezed his arm as he backed away. She knew his intent. He perceived that she, too, held wisdom beyond her years.

He opened the door, and inclined his head to greet John calmly. With that, he allowed the other man to step around him. He put one hand on John's arm to stall him in his progress. “Your concern for her is well-founded; however, the woman is far stronger than you might ever believe,” he murmured to John as he passed.

Seward sent Van Helsing an inquisitive look as he parted ways with him. There was a curious expression on Mina's face. He already knew that she was a strong woman, which sought the safety of her husband. He knew of the fierceness of her emotion, for he had watched her, even as she shoved aside his attendants to find that man. He knew the Count had sought her soul, and that she had walked away from something of great desire.

He felt that was enough to know. He believed in her. For propriety's sake, he would say no more about the Professor’s insinuation while in Mina's presence.  
\--

Once he noted the hour, Seward ended his rounds. He went to check on Jonathan. He hoped the salt worked to keep the Count at bay. As he entered the cell without taking the time to look through the observation window, he heard a whimper just as Jonathan shot upright on his bed. Seward drew back, briefly fearing a repetition of things. Then, he shook his head.

Jonathan was himself, just momentarily confused by his surroundings. “Jonathan? Are there any particular matters that arose there? Anything untoward that occurred, such as before?” He asked, as Jonathan wiped the sleep from his eyes. If there was, he would have to declare the experiment, such as it was, a failure on Van Helsing’s part.

Seward was amused to see that the sack of salt had been implemented as a pillow. Jonathan hefted it up questioningly, as though to silently ask if he should drag it around forever. Seward gestured for him to put it back down; it was enough that it had aided him in here.

“He appeared, but the salt made him go.” Jonathan shook his head, before he yawned. “This was a bad dream…but it was not him seeking entrance in this way. It wasn’t his fault,” he assured the doctor as he caught his breath. “Not intentionally, at any rate.”

“Normally, I would ask what caused this, but I already know,” Seward sighed. He was wary at the news that the Count returned, but pleased the salt did its job. He silently praised Van Helsing. “He had a go with Mina, while you slept. She made it through intact.” There was panic in Jonathan’s eyes until Seward hurried to assuage it. “She is well.”

Jonathan put his head in his hands before he finally looked back at him after he was suitably composed. “I’m glad he didn’t take her. In all the confusion, I should have guessed he might strike through her. I didn’t say enough to you about any threats; I became scatterbrained after events.” He looked guilty, but knew it couldn’t have been avoided.

He remembered how frightened she had been of herself when they had been alone. He remembered how careful she was not to destroy him. He felt proud of her for surviving, though despaired for her having been without company when she was tested.

Before either could say another word, Mina herself appeared in the window. They saw her turn and thank someone. Evidently, she sought to verify she wasn’t heading for the wrong area. It was unlikely his room had been changed, but after current events she was evidently making certain. At the sight of her, Seward waved to acknowledge they were well. “It’s almost the appointed hour,” Seward noted after checking his pocket watch. He opened the door for her, once he saw it was latched.

“The Professor sent me to say that all is almost prepared; we found particular answers,” Mina said quietly from the door. “He has the ring now.” It was part of her way of saying she was her own self. She turned to Jonathan. “I’m here to gather you, too,” she added as Jonathan clasped her hand and kissed it. He appeared both distracted by his worry and greatly determined.

She waited in the hall, knowing he would emerge when he was ready. Once Jonathan bounded out close behind, his emotions got the better of him. Then again, they always seemed to do that, ever since the Count interfered in his mind. He immediately strode over to Mina, and put his hands on her shoulders.

He just wanted to see for himself how close it had been to her own ruination; he had suspected it was closer than Seward would ever know. He could see it in her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell,” he said in a broken whisper. He felt remorse as he moved to hug her.

“You didn’t, because you wouldn’t see them view me with suspicion,” Mina soothed against his chest. She understood better than anyone. She knew his mind; he knew hers. She knew when he had oriented himself at last, for he pulled back and fairly drank in the full sight of her. He had not noticed before, in his concern. He had wished to tell her of his misstep before anything further.

Jonathan’s expression was properly restrained, though there was a great joy in his eyes. He had heard the sound of her skirts rustling as she departed, but had not paid it any mind. He had assumed it would be standard fare. He didn’t know what he should say, as so much strained to break free. Mina was attired in her Sunday finery; it was a flattering velvet green dress. She wore her favourite feathered hat and matching gloves.

She had only removed that one glove so that she might see to holding his hand; now, with him before her and understanding, she slid it back on. His smile grew at last. “Oh, but you do look magnificent, Mina! He will certainly understand your meaning in this. He will certainly know you cast him off, if there was any doubt,” he enthused.

It was a bold statement that Jonathan understood well. It was one that anyone that knew her would understand, and detect the truth beneath. She was not defeated. She was not despairing. She had survived, and wished for none to pity her. She was no longer vulnerable. Nor was she in a weakened state, left to flounder in a nightgown that provided little to no protection from the elements.

In her own way, she was dressed for war with the devil. This became her secondary suit of armour, following the love of Lucy, which had bolstered her courage. “I decided that if I was uncertain in any measure, that I should appear to be the opposite,” Mina smiled. “As the day wore on following his visit, though, I began to feel much more like me. The rawness is departed. I feel far less the strange demon playing merry sport with desires, dark and cold.”

She had contemplated wearing her furred cape in a burgundy shade, but knew it was best to do away with such. If dark powers continued to be afoot, it could be used to trip or harm either herself or another. She saw how his breath was taken away at the very idea of her being in any way demonic, though it was the truth. Both had seen; both had felt that impulse.

Jonathan had sought to touch her in that darkness; he had sought to save her, wounded though she felt she was. He had not judged her. She knew his feelings for her, though was still flattered by the adoration in his eyes. She also saw the manner in which his thoughts must certainly turn towards, as he pondered the broken path that led them here. She was much the same.

Jonathan had missed her so much; first there was the madness, and then only being able to speak as himself while under hypnosis. That didn’t allow for a mature conversation, for she hadn’t been present for that. Then she was bitten, and he was ensnared; she was wooed by dark thoughts, and he was channelling implanted directions. He was exorcised, and sought to provide her with comfort; she wandered that dark path to its completion.

They had said so little, but so much while awaiting Seward’s discovery of the salt. His emotion showed on his face, before he let her go and looked away.

Mina touched his arm, and waited for him to turn her way again. “Welcome back, as I haven’t said it before. I wasn’t in any state to think of speaking such words. He _won’t_ take us again,” she fiercely declared. He had seen more horror than her, she knew. They had each felt an equal allotment, and survived. When she hadn’t known his fate, when he was missing, she had almost worried herself to death.

The unknown was the worst of this whole saga. They didn’t know what form another invasion would occur. His next words brought tears to her eyes.

“I love you; I always have. I—I just couldn’t remember that at one point, when I was of two minds. When I was hidden in my prison, everything was muffled and confused. I never said I still did when we were alone,” Jonathan said, as his voice broke. He kept his voice low enough that Rowse wouldn't hear too much as he passed close behind.

“And I love you, too,” Mina managed through tears. She had always known. Just as she knew that it wasn’t enough until they were freed entirely. “He won’t take the ember of that away from us!”

With one arm around Mina’s shoulders, Jonathan sighed. He rubbed his face dry before he turned back to Seward. “I didn’t think to ask this earlier. Were my eyes like his…before? During the exorcism.” Had he resembled a vampire? “Yours were not; never have they resembled more than their natural beauty,” he whispered in Mina’s ear. She seemed relieved; uncertain; charmed at the last.

“Hmm,” Seward replied with a small cough meant to cover a chuckle. He hadn’t dared to intrude as they spoke. As Rowse had passed him, he had whispered in his ear about the ‘bloomin’ love story in here these days’ that was going on in the middle of his shift, and so he had wandered back.

He finally made note of what he was being asked, and realised what a serious matter this was. Seward almost couldn’t tell Jonathan there had indeed been something when the man cried out.

This was a serious matter, so he began again. “They were devoted; there was something wicked. They were mad; they were desperate,” he reluctantly began. They waited quietly. “Only as he died did he show himself for what he was, Jonathan. There was a flicker of an unnatural light in your iris when he cried out in that ungodly manner.”

He was unnerved himself. “Your eyes were the colour of blood as it was slain. This was only in its final moment, of seeking to hold on to your body. It was only as you finished the last words of the Lord’s Prayer.” Jonathan nervously acknowledged this news with a wince; he knew he would not collapse, as he was made of sterner stuff.

Mina touched Jonathan’s cheek; looking into his eyes now, she could easily see just how frightened he was. “We won’t go back to what we were in his thrall, Jonathan. We can only go forward; we can only walk through his shadows, and turn to the light of our own volition. It is just as you said. I will. Won’t you join me?”

Jonathan nodded, unable to speak momentarily. Mina glanced away, and saw that Seward was taking his time. He was strolling further down the hall, and glancing into each room. She smiled; she was grateful for the privacy. Hands in his pockets, he gave them time.

Jonathan kissed her cheek, drawing her attention back. He agreed with her sentiment wholeheartedly. They remained in their position, wrapped around each other, for another few moments. He cherished the quiet. He cherished her. Then, Mina pulled away. She had more to say.

“Let us help each other, Jonathan,” Mina softly urged once she gestured that it was safe for Seward to return. “Not in the matters of blood or damnation or souls cast asunder: but through whatever love or friendship blooms between us in the aftermath, which we three possess. _That_ is how we three rip loose from Dracula’s shadow.”

Her. Jonathan. John. They were best together. She was determined, as Lucy’s love for her had shown her the correct path. If she had not died because of that monster, it would have been the strength of four against the Count. She paused; oh, but she was forgetting Van Helsing as she pondered what might have been; he wouldn't appreciate that. “By the appointed hour, no matter what creeps closely and seeks to hide within our souls.”

“By the appointed hour,” Jonathan softly repeated before he firmly nodded. Solemnly, he went on. “There are things that we must discuss, Mina. More occurred than I told you. How I behaved _in_ the castle is but one of those confessions which I feel the need to impart upon you.” 

“I know,” Mina replied, before turning to the other man. “In time, John,” she began carefully, as a fragment of this more sensitive topic was broached. “Would you be our mediator? No other would believe our woes. I—I find that there are topics that are nearly unsuitable for other ears and must be broached, and would only upset us both if they went unspoken. We could muddle them if we attempt to navigate this without aid.”

“Of course,” Seward agreed, even as Jonathan turned beseeching eyes upon him. It would be a tumultuous matter that discomforted him. He patted Jonathan’s shoulder. Then, he offered his arm to each. “Come on, then. I’ve already informed the orderlies that Jonathan must be taken on another excursion to further both his breakthrough as well rehabilitation.”

As they moved toward the winding stairway, Mina chose a hopefully more neutral topic of discussion than that particular strife. “Were you aware, Jonathan, that it was possible to identify a vampire with a dead toad?” The look turned upon her from two directions said it all. They were evidently not aware, and briefly wondered if she had taken leave of her senses. “It was in the oldest of the Professor’s books; a page slipped out. I laid hands upon it first. There was a limerick in those old Romanian folk tales.”

“I should think it was easier to identify one by the marks on the victim’s throat. What was the rhyme? The servant never mocked it; the peasants never waved them about; it might be nothing,” Jonathan wondered. He knew of a white horse ridden by a virgin; the crucifix and the cross; holy water; scriptures; garlic. He did wonder if the salt would have harmed the Count in the castle, and not merely as a ghost. He had never seen a shaker of salt in the castle.

“Bury a toad already deceased, and wherever the vampire crosses over its burial place, it shall be resurrected.” She sought to bring the short phrase back to her mind. “If a vampire should bestrode, close to the grave of a dead toad. Then the vampire life shall give, and suddenly the toad shall live.”

“Did you show this to the Professor?” Seward enquired. His tone was one of long suffering, for he could picture himself running through the woods, looking for the proper boxes and getting lost for days. How did one locate freshly dead amphibians? Were they available on the black market?

“I concealed it from him,” she wryly denied. She knew exactly his fear. “We are safer away from such matters. We will not handle their corpses.”

“Wait,” Van Helsing called out from a doorway not too far away. He knew their destination, but they must prepare better; they could not walk with little care. He must have words with them. “I need you three up here. Come along, we must speak in private,” he urged as he moved back into the room.

Jonathan tensed in disbelief; just as before, when the unnatural storm erupted, he feared that there may be a cancellation of the ritual. “It was good of you to try, but there is no room for arm in arm upon the stairs,” he whispered, primarily for Mina’s entertainment.

Mina easily saw through that façade of humour; it was a welcome distraction from a shared fear. She continued to hold Jonathan’s arm, though as Seward led the way ahead of them, it was rather unclear exactly who was leading whom to their destination.  
\--

As they entered the asylum’s library, Jonathan’s concern only escalated. It wasn’t helped by the curiously calculating expression that Van Helsing turned his way. While he didn’t believe he was hiding anything from anyone, he hadn’t expected any of the last day’s events either.

If his mind had been warped in any way with the addition of both the creature, and the Count’s tampering, before the creature’s extraction, then could he trust it? Even if it was exorcised, there was still the matter of the hazy memories. He ran his fingers through his wild hair, in an effort to tame it; it only served to make it stick up further, just at a different angle.

“How are you doing?” Mina whispered to Jonathan. She saw the agitation, and had let go of his arm so that he could move freely. Seward moved to sit at the edge of a table, as he conferred particular matters with Van Helsing, just out of their hearing.

“While I am not at my best, nobody is whispering temptations into my mind,” Jonathan returned, as he pulled out a chair for Mina. It was evident by Van Helsing's manner to that this was a time for preparation and discussion, and not action. Perhaps more details must be ironed out.

He would, however, risk a question while the floor was open. “Professor…I wondered. Should not I drink the water now, and not at the moment when something should occur? For I…I wondered if repetitively pondering my vivid anger towards him, and potential doubts would cause harm. Could that fixation cause him to gain a smooth purchase? Could it be an exploitable weakness, as it were? Could he make of me a saboteur?”

He moved to play with the cover of a book on a nearby table while he waited for the answer; it seemed to have more Latin in it than English. He didn’t read it; he wasn’t learned in the ways of that tongue, for more than particular words of the law. He only wanted a distraction before he became overly emotional. He felt a touch at his elbow, and turned to see that Van Helsing was closer than he realised.

Once Van Helsing regained the man’s attention, his look was inscrutable. He allowed a sly smile to be seen. “The fact that you have provided us a warning shows how far you have come. The fact you survived an exorcism after taking the initiative when you could bodes well,” At the other man’s expression of surprise, Van Helsing continued. “I would have expected subterfuge, if you didn’t doubt yourself. I would have expected a buried command had you not done as John told me. Waiting in dark times reveals the truth of you.”

He pulled a vial from his coat pocket, which had been cushioned by a piece of cloth. He held it up to the light, before offering it to Jonathan. He waited patiently. “I know you will not pour it out in opposition to us, and deference to his will. You are yourself. The servant is dead. You will drink the contents later.”

Jonathan took it carefully, as he didn’t desire to accidentally break it. “Thank you. I—I truly mean it.” When Seward squeezed his shoulder from behind, Jonathan knew that he was becoming too antsy. To his way of thinking, the best outcome of this entire exorcism was that at least he wasn’t manic. That was out of his system, and he trusted it would remain so.

“I will drink it as well, Jonathan,” Mina added. She had feared it at the start; she felt it was the proper choice at the end. “You need not do so alone.” The temptation had once been so strong, but she would _not_ become an unholy monster. She wouldn’t let the Count achieve another goal, were she to dismiss the thought of partaking as unnecessary.

Van Helsing casually gave her a second vial from the same inner pocket. She quietly accepted it, and a knowing smile passed between them. “I had no room for other vials, yet we two that remain can fortify ourselves.” He had anticipated Mina’s request. He had just enough water to share.

“Gather all that you require for our expedition,” Van Helsing advised them. It wasn’t quite the proper time; there was almost half an hour. “I have my own bag of tools.” He also had his questions, and knew the one best able to answer those. He leaned forward in the library’s plush green chair. “Jonathan, I grow curious. You were with him in the castle; you have wrested yourself loose from his grasp; you can, perhaps, answer something for me.”

“As best as I can, Professor,” Jonathan replied quietly. “I may not have been privy to all business or personal matters. Or it may have been lost with the exorcism of the servant…so please do not place all of your hope on me.”

When it came to Van Helsing witnessing Jonathan’s much more rational state of being, it was something of a novelty. There wasn’t even that creature to be watchful of anymore. He sighed heavily. “Did you ever record anything of your adventure or your thoughts on such matters you saw, Jonathan? Mina informed me you once kept a diary.”

“Yes,” Jonathan confirmed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to tell him. “I kept a daily chronicle. Or a nightly one, I should say. I kept detailed notes of certain matters.” Matters that felt too personal to say to him, but were not so with John. Jonathan didn’t know what could assist him, unless the subject were clearly broached.

Van Helsing perceived what wasn’t quite guilt in those eyes, before he turned away. “Did you jot down anything of use to us? Did you make any sketches of unusual things? Do you still have it hidden somewhere in the world, or did _he_ confiscate it?”

Jonathan shook his head and chuckled in a mix of weariness and dismay at his lot. He was leading the frustrated man on without meaning to do such. Seward understood the cause of his humour. They had spoken of this. “My apologies. I’m sorry for telling you it existed when it is gone, Professor. The servant burned it long ago, at the Count’s behest.”

He thought back over the period of time in which he had lurked within the castle walls. He looked back up to the Professor, then, eyes fierce with the hope that perhaps all could be safe and his life might be salvaged and rebuilt. “I can answer all you desire to know, even without such a prompt, I trust. Is there a specific item that you may have sought?” While some recollections were wreathed in mist, others were as real and clear as the paintings in this very room.

“Good,” Van Helsing replied with a dark smile. Jonathan was adept at following leads, if he had deduced his request. “I have a stack of papers I wish you to look at. Tell me if you saw any of these symbols. Perhaps something is buried and might drift upward with the proper image to trigger it and shove it into the light.”

“As you say,” Jonathan acceded. “You don’t consider me too unreliable a source?” Just because that thing was gone, it didn’t mean the Count couldn’t reach for him. He was no longer inside a circle of salt. It didn’t mean particular facets of knowledge were not false, if he played havoc with his thinking.

“Once, maybe, but no longer,” Van Helsing replied as he waved his hand. “Have I not already said so in regard to the water? You are vulnerable, yes. Willingly withholding aid? No longer. You would have tricked us into a merry hunt along the asylum’s corridors if he still held power over you.”

“That’s true,” Jonathan conceded with a small smile. “And I would have done so with a song in my heart, and a fleetness of foot. I am no longer quite so bound, nor am I inhabited by one so wicked.” He shook his head, and looked over at Seward. “Frankly, I do not desire to see such activity ever again.”

“This, too, I know, Jonathan,” Van Helsing acknowledged. It didn’t bother him.

Nearby, Seward and Mina watched their interplay in silence. Seward was proud of Jonathan for finally being able to talk with the Professor without retreating to him to get him away. It was almost like watching a chess match being planned. The pawn became the knight, as stratagems were conceived.

Van Helsing slid his pages over, and noted how fascinated the man was as he looked over every scrap. They had not been ripped from a book, but the old thing had seen better days. The glue of the binding having dissolved, it was easier to collect the individual pages, rather than carry the hefty weight and risk further damage. He looked to the clock as five minutes passed, with the only noise the turning of pages.

As Jonathan looked over each amulet’s design thoroughly, and traced the figures with his finger, he also struggled to penetrate the worst of the haze that surrounded that period. While his true self was always walled away back then, sometimes he had still been able to watch. Watched in terror, yes; he had still observed his surroundings with precision. He had still been so desperate for something that would make a dent in the hell he was cast into.

The servant had frequently entered rooms without permission, all of which had fallen into disrepair. He hadn’t thought of locks as more than an inconvenience to be forced open if prey was about. He had gone through cupboards and tables in a quest for insects and rats, and found some rarities among long forgotten baubles. Were his eyes keen enough? Was his remembrance assured enough?

Jonathan turned another page with great care as pieces flaked away from the corner. He placed the previous one face down; one particular design on this next drew his attention, and he shook his head. He knew it, didn’t he? He discarded the thought that it was seen in the nearby village, before his mind at last latched hold of the right time and place for it. He sucked in a breath, startled, before he glanced up to the older man. Van Helsing only waited in silence.

“I remember this one,” he excitedly explained. “The second from the last on the final page, third row, sir,” he said quickly as he slid the paper over. “The word Pax was certainly on it. It—I believe it was concealed inside a drawer with a broken lock, beside some old parchment paper. It was a room that belonged to someone the Count desired. The servant was…curious. While the servant continued to hold sway over my actions, I detected his revulsion, as well as the Count’s,” Jonathan disclosed.

What had become of it? “The servant threw it out the window onto the rocks below, after wrapping it in cloth, and there came the feeling of the Count’s pleasure seeping inside in reward,” he continued. He felt melancholy now, for he had discarded a valuable item to their crusade. Jonathan shook his head. “I never once thought the knowledge would aid you, sir. I could not have altered his aim.”

“God bless your curious nature,” Seward softly said when he saw that Jonathan threatened to fall into a morose state. While it was little consolation, perhaps the compliment would drag him out of that. “It influenced the servant’s, I trust.”

“But it led me into his power,” Jonathan replied in dismay. “The servant threw it away! I—I’m just glad it’s serving a good purpose now.” The Count had not factored on a solicitor uncovering vulnerabilities in his castle without knowing it. The sight had been dormant in his mind until now. “What is it, Professor? What does this circle of letters signify?”

“It is a Saint Benedict medal. If he hated it in his immortal life, so much the better,” Van Helsing smiled grimly. “There is a formula for exorcism on several manuscripts with Benedict’s mark, which I have procured copies of in my travels. It is known as the Vade Retro Satana. If we combine that with another and additionally use the prayer which kept what he made of Lucy at bay, then…we shall likely succeed.” Van Helsing began to put everything into his bag.

“Professor,” Jonathan called to stop him. Everything was moving so quickly. When the man raised a brow, he continued. “What of the three women still within the castle’s walls?” he asked out of curiosity. “Must I lead you to them, or are they best forgotten?” If he did enter that place again, he knew he would fall back under their spell. He guessed he would be vulnerable to such things forever.

“No,” Van Helsing resolved. “So long as they do not journey here to avenge their master, we can let them stay where they may. Would they seek such, Jonathan?”

“No,” Jonathan guessed; he was uncertain at first, before he became confident of that declaration. “It was petty grievances and feral behaviour for them. Controlling others for sport was more to their liking. When the servant was forbidden their touch, and they were warned away, it was primarily hissing; snarling; screeching; _clawing_.”

He shrugged as though it was commonplace; for him, it had been, as ghastly as it was. “They were animals. They were simple animals that sought a caress, and blood. They wouldn’t avenge him,” he continued. “They would rejoice as they felt the ripple of his doom reach them.” He realised how it might go afterwards. “They should turn upon each other as they establish dominance. They were quite territorial, Professor.”

The lovely Japanese one had frequently lurked outside his apartments. It was an odd companionship on the nights that the Count did not summon him immediately with a mental instruction. She and Jonathan had hissed and bayed at each other through the door in what was almost a demented sort of game.

Or, at least, _the servant_ had considered it amusing; never the solicitor, for he was appalled by the very remembrance of those behaviours. She was probably just hungry, and toeing the line the Count had thrown down.

She _could_ speak, just as they all could when they chose to, though their language was foreign to Jonathan. The vocalisations made their status clear. He wracked his memory to recall her name. Yes, Amaya! That was it! Now that his wits were more or less restored, such grotesque conduct befuddled him and riddled him with further doubts.

Jonathan felt Mina’s hand on his back, and turned to look at her; her expression confirmed she bore a similar wariness to her own thoughts. He dreaded becoming the Count’s devoted lackey once more should they fail, just as she must dread becoming a vampire. She kissed his cheek.

“Stay strong in your mind, and stay focused,” was all that Mina could advise. 

“I’ll try,” Jonathan nervously promised. “I will not listen to his voice when it intrudes upon me. As you will not, I trust?”

“That’s right,” Mina agreed in encouragement as she rubbed his arm. “We will both push him aside.” It felt strangely like they were being too hasty in their proclamations; they must have confidence, however. Mina remembered how they once spoke prior to something important in their normal lives. Jonathan would grow despondent and fret, and lose track of the little things somewhere along the way.

Mina would keep him focused and steady; she would correct the knots of his tie, before sending him on his way. Metaphorically, at any rate, she deemed as she looked at him; she could only smooth his collar, for asylums did not allow ties.

It was that way with his fretfulness on the last day of exams; their wedding day; his first day at the firm; before he left on his business trip. He had lost his portmanteau three times on that day alone. At heart, they were still the same people, despite having lived through such horrors and picked up a few extra fears.

“I believe in you,” Mina whispered as he held her close. He said it to her; now she said it to him. His touch was gentle; cautious at first, before they sank into the comfort of each other. They both knew to fight the darkness if it reached for their minds.

“And I, in you,” Jonathan replied. At a look from Van Helsing, Jonathan nodded; he was finished. He and Mina looked into each other’s eyes. Yes, they were ready. They could speak for each other should the need arise.

They knew what to use. They knew when. They would do this in the graveyard, where this chapter had begun even as they had believed it to be ending. They prayed they would not be stopped. They moved to leave the room.

It was just Seward and Van Helsing now, for Mina and Jonathan were not so far ahead, and speaking in the hall; they were quietly advised to wait where they could be seen, while the remainder could see to a minor matter.

There was no space for Van Helsing’s small canteen within his satchel, so he would use the meagre contents with alacrity. He took a long pull of holy water, prior to passing it to John. “It is true liquid courage, John. He cannot take our bodies, should he turn from those two.”

Seward understood; they would not themselves be targeted for possession. The Count could not reach through his chest and claw out or simply stop his heart in his fury, unless he had that ability to do so from far off. He did as the Professor urged, before he passed it back to him. He still carried salt in the inner pocket of his jacket, and trusted that would amplify his protection. 

Van Helsing left the canteen on the table. Lifting the satchel, he turned to determine the time; his arms were full, or he would have consulted his pocket watch. While the clock on the mantle was broken, the grandfather clock still ran precisely. It chimed that the hour was at hand, as he and John left the library.


	9. Chapter 9

There was grim work ahead. Van Helsing waved his hand to urge the others on, before he moved to put down his bag at the base of a sepulchre. He doubted there would be any cause for them to mourn further victims, as he gazed upon such an angelic piece of marble.

Seward glanced back at the other two. He had taken stock of the fact that anyone passing might become intrigued by their activity, if the gate remained open. They were safely inside, so he closed it behind them with a clang. “I suppose that is your signal. Cheers, both of you?” He said it uncertainly as Jonathan quietly stared into the vial, with an expression he just could not read.

“Just as we arranged, yes,” Jonathan murmured almost to himself before he glanced up. He was tense, and keeping an eye out for any untoward events. The gate had groaned when it opened before the clang. If it was close to an asylum, did it really matter? Who would care, if the caretaker were away? “First the protection, and then the act itself.”

Mina wanted Jonathan to see that all would be well. “To our health and the recovery, safety, and continued sanctity of our souls,” Mina agreed. “Jonathan, you will drink first, and I shall follow in your wake,” she reminded him once she had his attention. They were both afraid of how it would feel, but had agreed that his was the right to begin. She squeezed his hand for continued courage and stepped back.

It made Jonathan wonder if they anticipated that he may strike out against them, and wished to leave the line of fire. It was not improbable, but his next fancy of being caught between two opposing forces and exploding into flame _was_. He took a calming breath, and gazed into the innocent liquid. He felt foolish for his reticence.

Then, something brushed against Jonathan’s mind almost too softly for him to notice. A new foundation was being poured. The Count planted an idea, and then warped his viewpoint so that it might spread like a disease; there was a mild transference of the direction of Jonathan’s animosity, from the Count to the living present at his destruction. Mina was the only exclusion. So that he might gain that invitation into his heart, the Count would reshape his good intentions.

Jonathan could see the Count again, but he could not speak. Even as a spirit he was forced to hover and move aside from the sanctified graves. As he stared upon him, he remembered he was not supposed to look into those eyes, but he couldn’t understand why anymore. The Count’s spirit desired for him to yield; he began to feel that this was wise.

A transparent hand was outstretched towards his prodigal servant. Yes, that servant had been exorcised, but he would take his body for his own if Jonathan was unable to perform his part of the service. He knew how to press on, and find Jonathan’s weakest pieces. Give up; give in; let him guide him, and show him other ways. All things were possible through him. Jonathan need only listen.

Before the Count had turned his full power on Jonathan, he had tried it more simply through Mina as she passed where he had burned. She had been so focused on keeping herself steady, that he almost managed it. Until, that was, she had focused all her mind on calling up golden crosses, and reciting psalms. That alone would not dissuade him, but the repetition of the Lord’s Prayer _did_. Her eyes were focused on his exact placement, though he knew she could not see him.

She had, however, felt his cold touch trail down her spine. That sensation could never be forgotten. Mina gave a start, and then quickly turned to John. “He is here,” Mina warned in a hushed tone. “I felt something inside my thoughts, but it was deflected.” It was inexplicable, but she sensed it from elsewhere seconds later. There was a faint residual flicker, and she knew where it was going. “There is an echo towards Jonathan.”

Seward had gone instantly to Mina’s side. He felt she had grown far too quiet and still for his liking, but was relieved when she spoke. He had a hand in one pocket, and held up a few grains of salt upon its withdrawal. He turned to see what he could perceive. After Mina’s warning, he wanted to see what kept Jonathan’s attention. Was he in a trance?

There was nothing at first; but then, something rippled like warm air over a cobblestone street. He could detect something—like a greater predator—watching their activities.

There was an almost incalculable sense of evil as he took a single step in that direction. Before he could throw the salt, the direction changed to the opposite side. It was as though it knew his intent and sought to make him feel him from every angle. It would be wasteful to throw it if he were mistaken as to the Count’s positioning! “Professor, I believe the Count is here,” Seward warned, in growing horror. “He chooses to conceal himself this time.”

Van Helsing glanced up from his perusal of the Latin phrasings; he had to admit, something caused the air to feel heavier. “Does he speak to you, Jonathan?” The solicitor had yet to move from his pose. His eyes detected the hand that held the vial shivered. 

Jonathan returned to himself at the question. “Not in true words. There is...a stirring; a beauty; a harmony in the night,” Jonathan replied with a slight smile that seemed off. He was going for nervous and it was twisted into something harder. It was unbecoming of the situation. Distantly, and then more obviously, Jonathan could sense his emotions being subtly influenced in a way that he almost scarcely noticed, until he saw how it made him react to the others. It wasn’t a swift alteration like the first time.

It wasn’t a seduction like back in the cell, with his memories used against him. This was a warped and cavalier transformation being attempted, so that it may be sent careening through his vulnerable psyche and soul. 

And then, he stared wildly about him as that force moved faster; everything he knew rearranged itself. He felt like he was coming out of a fog. Mina was in danger, and these people were behind it. His eyes were unfocused as a scenario played out. “Come away, Mina,” he suddenly demanded, as he reached to grab her wrist. Something was snatched from his hand while he was distracted; he turned to see that Seward had darted in and snatched a vial away.

As he turned to confront the man, Mina pulled herself loose, and moved out of his reach. It must be acid to use against them; yes, that was why she moved away! He had never held it a voice insisted, but he must smash it. “You seek an audience with Satan, and wish to use her death to achieve it! What have you done to her, that she fears her own husband?” Yes, only the Count could save them. He clutched his head, as knowledge he shouldn’t have was poured into his head.

Mina knew the source of his sudden madness, but it was horrifying to witness such a descent in person. She held herself back, for he was too unpredictable. “Jonathan, John and Abraham are our friends,” she soothed. Jonathan didn’t seem to hear her comment. She approved of how John passed the vial to Van Helsing, who hid it in his satchel for the time being. She passed them her vial.

“All of this is sacrilege, Van Helsing,” Jonathan loudly insisted. His intentions to rush towards the man were telegraphed clearly, but Seward moved between them. Seward's hands were splayed on his chest, as though he wouldn’t truly seek to hurt him. “You dabble in the black arts, and then seek to hold a black mass on this unholy night. ” He could hear the chanting, though he did vaguely wonder who was left to do that. He could smell the odour of such pungent incense that it left him feeling dizzy.

“Jonathan, I want you to focus on me, and what you know. You were in the asylum; the Count’s agent was exorcised,” Seward implored as quietly as possible. He saw revulsion in Jonathan's eyes, but it was torn between that and utterly being baffled. “This is a last bid to steal you away. Think. Do you remember why we are here on this evening? We are here to end a curse; to save you, and Mina. We don’t consort with the devil. We are your friends.”

Jonathan was slowly coming around. He knew his friends were present, but couldn’t recall the faces of anyone other than them. Two sets of thoughts were in his head, and the more he focused on the cultists, the less real they became. The only thing real was these people; their duty; and the Count, who sought to destroy him. “We don’t consort with the devil,” Jonathan weakly repeated, as he slowly relaxed. “I—I remember the exorcism, John. We are not surrounded by torches; there is only that meagre lantern to light our way.”

“Good,” Seward replied just as softly. Slowly, he moved his hands away from Jonathan. The threat the man posed was already receding, even more now that he could mock himself. He was not irretrievably mad, his true self was swiftly returning as Seward watched. “What did he make you think about us, aside from the obvious?”

“I—I thought you performed human sacrifices, and that Mina was chosen. I heard something about attending the Scholomance. It was for the devil’s last disciple that this would take place,” Jonathan murmured. It was madness that he had believed it, but he had felt so assured that it was real. He was rattled. “There was an altar! I was certain of it, but he can make a man believe anything.”

Van Helsing was flattered that their foe would implicate him in something so operatic. “I am not so well versed in the occult as to sign my name in the Devil’s book,” he warily chuckled. “The Scholomance is proof the Count tampers with you. My books have linked the undead to it much as a plague would spread outwards. Certain breeds have been ascribed to that particular legend. They say those could have originated from there, when selling a soul went wrong.”

He could see that Jonathan was steadier. “Are you ready?” A solemn nod from him was enough. “Give him the vial, John.” He snapped open the satchel, and moved it towards Seward. It was promptly returned to the man, even as Mina reclaimed hers.

Jonathan held tight to his sense of who he was, and who he sought to be. He pushed away the lies. He quietly cradled the vial; he was contrite. “I’m sorry for my abruptness when I sprang forward, Professor. I can still feel him scratching at my mind.”

“Look at me,” Seward advised. "We do not wear black cloaks; we don't have the hallmarks that tell of our tenure in a secret society, now do we? Look at _Mina_ ; she is well. Focus on reality. Think of how you could be free of the Count,” he pointed out.

“Focus on the crosses among us,” Mina urged. She felt the Count had already done his worst to her, when she was alone. “Tell us how much you desire to be free, Jonathan. Remember the months he took from us! And know that as soon as you sample your vial, I shall do the same.”

“Good woman,” Seward murmured. He hadn’t thought of the markers at all, when they surrounded them. 

“More than I desire to embrace his ways. I can see his efforts, and know them to be dubious. So long as he does not conquer me through those fancies, I believe it to be so,” Jonathan carefully answered with a small and terrified chuckle that he thought laid the fears of his soul bare for all to see. “I will never let you in, _dear_ Count.” He could ever so faintly detect the flutter of a bat’s wings behind him.

It didn’t matter if it was a physical avatar or an illusion. He would not turn to look, and do himself greater harm. All that mattered was escaping his touch. “For my mother’s sake,” Jonathan murmured as he reflected on warnings not heeded throughout his journey. He should have accepted that old woman’s rosary. He gave the others a tremulous smile when he saw their confused worry. 

“I will explain it someday,” he swiftly promised, though not unkindly. Jonathan drank swiftly in defiance of his former captor. He drank before his mind could turn against him.

It was so simple that it was like merely removing a key from a lock that would have allowed the Count to saunter into his _soul_. It was not just taking off shackles. It was preventing his very entrance. Jonathan had to have faith in this. The touch of the cool water made him instinctively shudder as he swallowed, even if he didn’t understand why.

‘ _You have no further power over my life_ ,’ Jonathan thought. ‘ _This heralds my eternal answer._ ’ He caught himself as he uttered a low moan. It was reflexive after his experiences; he wasn’t suffering, he was just reacting as expected to the thought that it really should have hurt. His face went white as his stomach clenched, but it passed. It was like he could sense it ridding him of an impure element. It was the opposite of the tainted cognac.

Perhaps it was the last driving force behind the ingesting of the Count’s blood, all those months ago. It was, at last, being purged by meeting true holiness. He felt Mina touch his arm; his hand instinctively covered hers. She, at least, would know him to be well.

“Open your eyes, Jonathan,” Seward urged. When Jonathan did look his way, Seward was just relieved that it was his friend looking back. No unnatural power had cast a spell and taken him away again. There was only a man both awed and humbled by his dramatic situation.

Jonathan shrugged, bemused, feeling as though the moan might have been construed to be childish. “I am well,” he assured everyone when he saw their worried looks. “I merely found the experience enervating, and less painful than I expected it to be. My apologies.” He turned and looked around; he could not perceive the Count’s outline; he didn’t see those eyes, or feel those lips pressing unexpectedly against his own. There was not the sense of a force intruding and seeping into him.

Seward neared him, and made the pretense of checking his pulse. That was normal, but still he had questions. “Do you still see him? Do you see any visions?” He had one hand to the back of Jonathan’s neck as he looked into his eyes. In silence, Jonathan shook his head. He would be far more volatile if he were in the Count’s power; they had just proven that.

“I’m sure, John. I swear to you that I cannot see him, or feel his touch,” Jonathan promised in a whisper. He knew his concern, as so much had been done to pull him back. He felt uncertain if he had overstepped his boundaries when he put his hands on Seward's shoulders, so he wouldn't feel so awkward. When Seward let go, Jonathan turned to look at Van Helsing. “Would you consider this to be a permanent effect?”

“First, allow me to know what you experienced,” Van Helsing brusquely requested. They were not going to be tricked by a potential ambush. If everything went correctly with him, he would be assured of the success of the first phase of their battle plans. “Only then can I answer.”

Jonathan began to describe the experience for their edification. He had already begun to study it, having anticipated their interest. “It felt like my veins or my blood were warming, but not with fire—I mean, not physically, of course.” He focused on explaining. “Or it—it was purifying and searing out the last of what he put inside me,” he added. “What remains of the blood, so long afterward? I was dipped into a cool stream, and felt peaceful.”

Purifying was the only thing he could think of to cause the experience, short of it all being in his mind. Perhaps he had wanted something to happen so much that it had made something up. To goad her into action before a further crisis, Jonathan knowingly added, “It really is quite refreshing, Mina!”

Mina chuckled nervously at that, sensing the Count’s attentions beginning to refocus on her. She could feel what must be his shadowed hand, stretching out towards her shoulder. Before her mind could be ensnared or something more brought to the surface for his purposes or their debasement, she had consumed the entirety of her vial.

She thought she felt something twist inside her, but it was gone as quickly as it began. She didn’t even feel a desire to squeak. There was no cause for moaning. “I believed I would burn more than you, Jonathan, due to the bite,” she admitted as Jonathan took the empty vial and placed it beside his own on the bench. “The warmth was effervescent at the beginning. And, yes, the coldness was quite brisk at the end.” Was it because she had denied him with so much finality?

Jonathan quickly returned to her side, once he was certain the vials wouldn't just roll off. His thumb stroked her cheek, as he looked into her eyes proudly. He was impressed that she was so strong. He glanced over his shoulder at Van Helsing. “Would it have been worse for me if I hadn’t been purged of the creature?” Jonathan wondered.

“You were not so far gone as Jonathan,” Van Helsing deduced for Mina. “You were neither his servant, nor the walking dead. You made your choice. If you had gone to the grave, of course, that would be another matter.” He held the ring in his palm; he nodded in confirmation of Jonathan’s last question. While he had no firm answers, he suspected it would have been just so.

It might even have proven fatal to drink it, if Jonathan were still engulfed by that other entity. Van Helsing dismissed that theory, for there was no way it could be proven. “What do you two perceive? Do you hear him guiding you to strike me down?”

“I hear nothing of the sort, Professor. I hear nothing of him,” Jonathan cautiously admitted. “Nor do I see those red eyes, lit like coals plunged into the hearth. Mina?”

Mina shook her head in agreement. “I don’t hear him, but I feel repulsed,” Mina admitted. “Specifically from the location in which you saw him, Jonathan.” Jonathan looked as though he were turning that over in his mind, before he inclined his head in agreement. The Count was watching them. He was waiting for them to do the wrong thing; it felt as though he was preparing to strike when they were vulnerable.

“You are parted from him so long as it is in your system,” Van Helsing corrected. “Or so long as his reserves of strength do not grow and outmatch our attempt. When its protection is gone, he will be nearer to intruding upon your soul than he was moments prior to the time you drank.” He took notice of how devastating it must be for the younger man. His studies had led to fascinating theories, but they were still in danger. They must be on their guard.

“The sooner we finish this, the safer everyone will be,” Seward interjected hopefully. He was glad that he had taken the Professor’s fears under advisement, and that the two men had sampled their own wares, as it were.

That accursed delusion had struck a bit too close for Seward’s liking.  
\--

Jonathan was seated on the nearest bench, while he acclimated to the idea that he was but temporarily freed from any recurrence of Dracula’s control over him. What must be done next? He hadn’t been informed, as though it was a great secret. Seward and Van Helsing seemed to be in the grip of the latest of their many private consultations. And so, he waited, as Mina remained near to him.

He gave the barest glance to the mausoleum at first, and then didn’t move because of what he saw. He didn’t dare, lest something he did shatter the vision; the revelation. There was a wispy figure standing there. He moved to his feet in the slowest, most natural manner that he could manage, so that he might not draw attention to himself.

Briefly, he felt his rejoicing at her appearance to be groundless. She was stepping out of the way behind a headstone and disappearing from view. It was off-putting, but soothing all the same. He knew she was still there, and suspected she was just as worried and impatient as he was.

And then, she turned around, and stared straight at him. Oh, yes. This was Lucy Weston, and he could see her _face_. He had only seen the mist coming at the servant before; he had only felt the touch that soothed in the crypt; he had seen that lightness when she entered him and sought to bring some light and aid him in his struggle for his body. And yet, in all of that, he had never seen her visage with such vibrance.

He only ever felt her presence, so needed in his time of woe. Was it because he was free--even temporarily--that he could see her in her splendour? Was it allowed because of the exorcism? Could anyone else see her? Why wasn’t Mina reacting? He glanced to the others and saw that all eyes were already on him, and nobody was crying out in joy or sadness. “I—I gasped, didn’t I? I meant to stay quiet, but I must have made a sound.”

“No,” Van Helsing staunchly replied. Had something extraordinary presented itself? Had the water worn off so quickly? “We wondered at your prolonged silence after you leapt up, and found you fascinated, and filled with joy. You saw…someone, did you not?” When Jonathan nodded, he continued. “A vampire once, was it not?” He wanted to know what trick the Count played on his mind this time.

“Who do you see?” Seward demanded; his voice was slightly strained. He knew, though. He knew! He did, by the reaction upon Jonathan’s face. Of course it wasn’t the Count! Of course she would be here. She would know of their intent.

“No. I mean, yes,” Jonathan breathed in response to Van Helsing. He almost couldn't speak at all. “I no longer see _him_. You know this. I see _her_ ,” Jonathan replied, taking no offence from the heat of the doctor’s questioning of him. “I _see_ her face. I see her as she must have surely been before he touched her. I couldn’t before, likely because I wasn’t so close to being free!” He watched her carefully. It was like the crypt. He could feel something else. “And, still, she worries,” he breathed.

She was there to console; she was there to soothe. She wasn’t going to hurt anyone. She hadn’t done more than heal in the crypt. She wanted to see this to the end, as well. He gathered himself, so that he might dispute her case before Van Helsing, if he must. It was just such a shock to his senses.

“Sir, I saw Lucy Weston; it was her spirit, and not a nightmare of her corrupted flesh. I swear to all that is holy that I saw her,” Jonathan declared. “This isn’t like the cultists. My thoughts remain my own.” He would argue against her being an unholy demon or a wanton remnant of a dead woman if he were required to do so.

He understood that the Professor might think him mad again as a particular impulse seized him, but he felt it would be rude not to acknowledge the dear woman. “Excuse me.” He turned and gave Lucy a little wave. It felt rude not to do so. While Mina may not have been able to see it, Lucy had thrown them both kisses.

“Fascinating,” Van Helsing commented after a moment of surprise. “Does she want to return to what she was, or does she warn of greater danger?” He hoped it was truly her, and not a vision induced by the Count’s whims.

“I saw her work in the crypt. I viewed her message scrawled in the dust in her own hand,” Seward firmly retorted. He would defend Jonathan’s sighting to his own dying breath. “Jonathan and I both felt her touch; she intervened when the servant desired to strike me down. I can verify that he isn’t fooled or lying, Professor. This was too personal for us to speak to you about at the time.”

“She touched me when I was considering the darker path,” Mina softly added. “To aid me as best as she could.”

"She touched me when I could not be myself. She loosened the rocks within my wall, so that I might smash through and be the man I was. When the servant wished to kill John, as he said she stepped into action. Together we succeeded in briefly pushing him backwards, so that I might reclaim myself," Jonathan firmly concluded. He had expected his voice to shake, but it didn’t. He felt Mina’s hand on his arm. "I believe she is here."

He calmed in his defence, then, and looked back to her. “She is not as she was.” Jonathan softly added. He thought she looked softer than when she was undead. The harshness about her after her changing was gone from her. He thought she seemed almost satisfied. She was urging them on to their victory.

Van Helsing was forced to alter his opinion when faced with these facts. He knew ghosts were real from the Count's activities. Why not her? Her death had been violent. Could she not rise as a spirit to help, while the Count did the opposite? He sighed, forced to concede. “Either all of you are mad, or the spirit world is guiding us tonight. I choose to believe the latter unless something else arises to contradict it.”

Jonathan respectfully bowed to the elder man, pleased they had all won the argument. He glanced over to Mina. “She wants _you_ safe, Mina. She said so before. By preventing that _thing_ from doing what he was commanded, she kept you from being hurt further. She was right to do so. You wouldn’t be speaking to _me_ otherwise.”

“I encountered her before, Jonathan. After the crypt; after you wrested your soul loose via that exorcism,” Mina carefully noted. “I fought off his will, and his illusions, and knew that she was in my corner,” she whispered. “The barest wisp of a presence was there.”

“Her intervention allowed you the reprieve from him—and, therefore, your victory over his domination,” Van Helsing theorised. He had seen Mina afterward, as she provided him with the ring. She had been strong; fierce; absolved. He knew of the anger that the Count must have had directed upon him.

“What did you see?” Jonathan softly asked. He almost didn’t want to know. However, he understood that she would desire to speak of it to someone.

“I thought I saw myself undead…and covered in the gore of my victims. I felt as though the stain would never go away, and that all would see my sins,” Mina said softly, as she thought back on that moment. “In one illusion we were together, you and I, as when we were not ourselves. The same manner.”

Quietly, Jonathan stepped forward and took her hand without looking; he did not interrupt her, and she was glad for his strength. Mina nodded her thanks. She knew there could be no judgment from his corner; no recriminations; no disgust. He remembered their behaviour in the graveyard just as she did; she remembered his behaviours when he was not himself.

His small smile and glance were encouraging her to continue, when she almost lost her nerve. He was forever in her corner, just as she was in his…and just as John seemed to be, these days. When she closed her eyes to gather herself, she felt John’s hand lay itself on her shoulder. “I would commit atrocities all through the ages, and revel in it despite my true intentions.”

“You know what I would have done with you, of course, Jonathan; you remember our promised tryst of this morning that would culminate in this hour, under the blessed new moon, when we were not ourselves. You know what I attempted when you were awake.” She hesitated, but forced herself to admit the next as she turned to look at a partly stunned John. Had he truly not seen that strand of the evil web?

“I do,” Jonathan softly declared. He truly didn’t blame her for that desire. He had said as much after his exorcism, and would repeat it until his dying day.

If she told the rest she could be free. It was a secret that hurt her to keep. Whatever these two other men thought of her by the end, at least it would be over.

She touched John’s cheek, an apology in her eyes. He relaxed; he would be steady for her. “I would bite you when my fangs came in,” she began. “And they would have, too. They would have extended once I was in the midst of giving Jonathan my kiss; he would have become the first of my burgeoning flock with the servant dead.”

“I would enslave you, even as I took you.” The words were as simple as they were troubling. Her voice was almost too soft to hear, until she went on. “I would use you for foul purposes for my own amusements and yearnings before a proper change of you. And then, I fear, I would kill you when I could find no more uses for you. I don’t want to do such things to you, John. I scarcely desire to live in the shadows.”

She tugged at her gloves nervously. She saw what she was doing, and ceased. “The more I speak, the more such a yearning dwindles further. Its scarcity was dampened further from the water, I suppose. It was nearly gone for a time, after his attempt when I was alone.”

“Then,” Seward urged. “Speak as you must. Tell us, whatever horror it might cause us. Know that we love you, Jonathan and I.” He could see her horror; he knew the truth of her. The words were terrible, but they were not her intent.

No, she was wrong before. As she spoke, she was free. Her lurid imaginings and these awful words were bringing her relief. The men would not rush to shove a stake through her chest. That was a thought once placed into her by the Count. They listened, for she had their undivided attention. They continued to watch her, and she knew they were merely giving her time. She smiled sadly. Fleetingly, she had presumed they would become fearful of her. She was wrong.

“I find I have no taste for such grim tributes to Jonathan’s former gaoler,” Mina concluded. Let the Professor see that she had no more secrets. She smiled fondly at John, who was neither afraid nor angry, but a sweet mixture of awed and befuddled. She felt awe as well, and was beginning to find this whole speech she was enmeshed in rather silly and embarrassing, as she poured out her heart and soul.

Seward drew her close in an unexpected embrace before she could leave his side. “Lucy would be just as proud of you as we are,” he whispered, voice shaking with strong emotion.

“Her hug was just as tight as yours, John, when I denied him,” she replied. She turned to where the Professor was. She walked closer still, and spoke as honestly as she could in the face of his scrutiny. He had suspected her when she had the ring, and said nothing. They had come to their quiet understanding earlier, and therefore she need not air grievances.

She allowed her vulnerability; her fear; her dread to be viewed in her eyes. “Did my teeth _ever_ appear to sharpen? Did my eyes appear to you as hers did? Do you feel that I am a danger to your eternal soul? Are you afraid I shall entangle you within a web of deceit or bend your will to mine?”

She didn’t know just how tense she was until he shook his head no. There was only respect in his eyes, but no words were needed. Van Helsing reached forward; he patted her hand in consolation, and, she felt, gratitude for her strength in her confession; he stepped away, as she had grown to expect of him. It was almost like he had absolved her, for she respected his opinion most of all in this grand play.

Seward rubbed her back as she quivered in a state that was almost happy tears. They guessed from her words how she had become just as afraid of herself as they might have become of her in that future that could no longer be scried. Jonathan hugged her arm from the other side; she briefly turned away from John, and leaned against Jonathan's chest until she felt she could stop their flow entirely. 

“You’re not a danger, Mina,” Jonathan murmured in deference following what amounted to Van Helsing’s silent benediction. “You yourself are no longer _in_ danger...or we won’t be once the final actions are taken for the ring."

Mina nodded quickly. She gathered herself, and when she was composed she spoke. “So, then. Let us continue, and make haste with the cleansing. Let us set Lucy free to her long-delayed eternal reward, so that she does not feel woe in her haunting of us and fret for our missteps.” She wouldn’t ask why she hadn’t seen Lucy. It was enough that she had heard her. That alone had almost broken her.

It would hurt to let her go. It would hurt to lose Lucy for a third time.

Van Helsing gestured toward the crypt; all eyes turned to him again. These emotional displays made him uncomfortable, but that admission was not required.

“Before we do more, there is one last preparation to make,” he explained. He almost didn’t want to end the actions of the others, as they grew closer. He saw Jonathan was trying to steel himself for the task ahead; however, he didn't know the full scope of his part. “Mina, you and John remain here, for this task is too personal to you. The two of us will adequately prepare Lucy’s remains for the great bonfire.”

Mina glanced to John at a sudden movement. He noticeably paled, and then sat down quickly onto the closest bench. Where Mina’s recounting had not bothered him, this did. Mina took his hand, both for strength and to lend him support. She was glad John didn’t need to participate in something so grisly. This sort of task was not what he sought for an ending.

“Jonathan, you will come with me; your soul is mostly secure and prepared,” Van Helsing said as he motioned for the man to follow. He glanced back to Mina and John. “I wish for someone not so close to your Miss Weston to aid me in the final steps.”

Mina worried about what it may do to Jonathan’s mind to be the one to take that particular step. She put one hand to his shoulder and squeezed it in sympathy. This sort of task was not what he sought, she knew. Having read the literature, she knew the required actions.

Van Helsing wanted them to recover from their emotional outpourings, before another was thrust upon them; John had the salt, and could defend Mina should the need arise. It would at least give the two of them time to pull themselves together. He pulled a bone saw from his satchel, and gestured for Jonathan to walk with him.

Jonathan blanched at the sight of the tool. He looked reluctantly from Seward and Mina, then back to the Professor, as though he dared not leave the quiet strength of his doctor or his wife. “What exactly would you have me do?” He was not ashamed as his voice rose high in dismay.

“I will inform you as we walk. Come along, so that they may prepare themselves accordingly,” he urged as he grabbed Jonathan by the elbow. He took note as the solicitor glanced to Mina; just from the resolve on her face, he knew that she hoped to lend him strength, even as she saw to Seward.

In the end, with a man not quite as attached to Lucy in life as the others, the grim task was swift. Jonathan placed Lucy’s head beside her body, in two places beneath properly gathered branches, and hoped his nausea would not evolve further. More flammable materials were placed about her.

It had been difficult to cause further injury to Lucy’s body, after he had seen the woman’s spirit, and known her to be so good and just to him. Jonathan knew that he had only succeeded in severing her head by pretending that it was not Lucy, but the Count. When that had failed him, he had pretended it was the women of the castle. 

The women had been the tipping point. Until that moment, he had never dreamed he would be exposed to the world of the supernatural. In the aftermath of them fleeing the Count’s wrath, he was consumed by the Count’s will. He had done terrible things. He shook his head and glanced at the Professor after a time. He was trying to stay in the present, but it was difficult.

When he spoke, his voice was strained; he realised he would have almost certainly become quite ill, had his mind not gone wandering. “Must we do anything else, Professor?” He frantically wiped his hands clean, only to be disturbed by the fact he was doing so on Lucy’s burial shroud, carelessly picked up with her body. It fluttered to the ground when he found he could not justify keeping it near. He quietly prayed that Lucy would forgive him. He suspected that she would.

“The garlic,” Van Helsing urged. Jonathan placed a bulb of it in her mouth efficiently, but with tenderness at the core of it. He wrapped strands of it about her arms. To remove her from the coffin, they had first been forced to untangle it. Van Helsing had been concerned with how blankly Jonathan had gone about the other task, but saw that he was returned from his mental retreat. “Very good.”

Jonathan felt he should eulogise her, but he didn’t know what to say. He stared down at what there was of her. Had he a hat, he would remove it respectfully for her. The first aspect he directed towards her, though she was not at his side. “Dear Lucy, I wish you a peaceful afterlife, free of the misery and horrors of your falsely demonic unlife and assorted activities."

Jonathan paused for breath, and spoke half to Van Helsing for the remainder. "I am…glad, I suppose, that I could be of assistance in aiding her in this matter. I dearly love that she aided me equally, though I do not much care for my part in her unrest.”

Van Helsing patted his shoulder. Yes, this man would feel empathy for her after how she had aided him, he supposed upon reflection. He was a good soul. Before Jonathan could ask any further questions, he gave him his orders. “Tell them we have finished the bulk of it, and require their attendance for the last.”

Jonathan bounded away to deliver the news, and quickly caught his breath as he reached them. As he did, he realised he had fallen back on an absurd amount of formality. He judged it to be the mental strain. “Dr. Seward…I mean, John. Mina, we’re ready for you to join us if you could. All of the necessary preparations have been completed. If—if you don’t come closer than where I’ll show you, then you won’t be forced to see anything you don’t want to.” He felt that he at least owed Seward that much warning, after all he had done for him. 

Seward was aghast at how much was accomplished in so little time. They had severed the head cleanly. He held back a moment and watched the quickness with which Jonathan went into action, placing particular items like garlic around the body. Jonathan found and placed down extra tree limbs around her body. It almost looked like she was just sleeping, as he had tucked the body and the accompanying stake beneath layers of brambles and leaves.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” Seward replied in approval, before the other man dashed away. It was worse with the staking; he hadn’t been prepared for that sight. So long as he didn’t know how she looked while this procedure was performed, he should be fine. There would still be nightmares, of course. He must check in with Jonathan for such, too, given what he had done. Seward shook his head; pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped his brow with a deep sigh. Seward offered Mina his arm as she rose from the bench.

“No,” Van Helsing stated when Jonathan made to light it. “Perhaps they wish to be the one to see her off. Would either of you wish to do the honours?”

Seward moved forward. He felt that he should do the act rather than Mina. “I volunteer, Professor,” he replied. Jonathan brought him a branch he had put aside for the act; Seward accepted the makeshift torch; a cloth had been wrapped around the top and dipped in fuel. When he raised a brow, Jonathan moved his eyes to Van Helsing. Of course it came from that man, fully prepared.

“Might I place the ring into the funeral pyre’s flames and end this?” Mina asked. She was resolved to make this final gesture. John would light the fire, and she would dispose of this. Only the slightest wavering of her voice betrayed how the thought pained her. Lucy must achieve her final reward.

“We cannot know if the two rituals would converge in the doing and thereby bind _her_ to his plane of existence, if the ring is on her. Thereby, he might take her with him when he goes,” Van Helsing pointed out. Mina nodded. “There is another way.” He dropped the ring into her outstretched palm.

It was her choice where Dracula would be banished. It was John’s hands that would light the flame in the adjacent pyre. Mina placed the Count’s ring on the grave of the suicide. Wherever poor Mr. Cannon’s soul resided, he had been intruded upon once when his resting place was desecrated by the vampire’s entrance. Let it become the place of the undead creature’s annihilation.

Prior to the Professor’s denial, Mina had intended to place the signet ring gently atop Lucy’s brow, but he was correct. It could only bring further suffering to their door.

Seward waited for the Professor’s signal; finally, he knelt. Tears in his eyes, he plunged the torch into the lower portion of the dais they had created without much time. He let it stay there, smouldering and crackling before he moved back. It rapidly flew up the dried kindling all about her.

Van Helsing handed Mina a rolled up sheaf of papers with great care. “It is the ritual…a spoken sacramental. The one we spoke of in the library.” It was that old formula for exorcism, which had been passed down through the centuries, in so many texts.

“To deny you to speak the words of the Vade Retro Satana, or the rest—it would, perhaps, do you a terrible disservice to all that was endured.” Included with the words was a notation for the pronunciation of particularly arduous phrasings. The English was beneath each, in case it must be shouted. He had intended to do the deed, but now it felt proper to give the job to her.

Mina’s eyes passed over the words carefully. From Latin, to English, the phrasing was thus, and would certainly make her worry as she started. She gave him a look, and he shrugged as though it was commonplace. Let it begin. The first piece would come from the Catholic Rite of Exorcism.

“Depart, then, transgressor. Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent.” As Mina continued to speak, she heard the Professor mumbling a simple benediction. Or so it seemed at the start. It was, in truth, a funeral prayer that should have been uttered for Lucy prior to her death, and not her lingering spirit.

There was no other way to come to her aid as they spoke in unison. Mina to rid their lives of the Count, and exorcise a ring of his influence; Van Helsing to switch between that duty, and providing peace to Lucy.

Mina plunged through the words in earnest. “He has cast you forth into the outer darkness, where everlasting ruin awaits you and your abettors.” When she reached the end, she stepped back in surprise; unlike the prayer, her words triggered a violent wind to erupt around them, which made her hat fly off. As if it were an example of what her fate should be, it spontaneously burst into flames; the ashes swirled around them.

The Count was trying to frighten her into ending this. Mina tried to take no notice of it, for she was worried about other matters. She heard an unnatural screech, like a large and just injured bat, but she saw nothing.

No; that wasn’t true anymore! Within the space between them and Jonathan, something surged and formed; there was that dark mist gathering. The water was wearing off! An unseen hand tried to tear the pages away; she held them tighter. There was a claw mark on one page, but the text was still legible.

If she had extra reserves of holy water at hand, Mina resolved that she could have quickly pulled her hat pin from her hair, submerged it into the holiness and stabbed the fiend without ceasing the incantation for more than a breath. It was a ridiculous thought, but it was conjured by her utter terror of their potential defeat.

“Read the lines of the other passage! Read the Vade Retro Satana,” Van Helsing commanded. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the gale. They would alternate that with what had struck the fiend. As she passed him the relevant page, he decided that he would speak quietly, that which she had just declared.

To her credit, Mina managed to do just that despite her terror and unfamiliarity with the words. The English aspect of the translation felt ridiculous to her ears once she reached it, but she didn’t pause or ridicule it for the fear it would bring them to ruin. Although, was not one of Dracula’s historical names The Dragon? If they were the same man, of course; the books were uncertain. That aspect would hopefully prove beneficial to them in their quest to purge this evil.

They would slay their own dragon on this night.

As she reached the end, the wind grew not so fearsome. That manifestation was being cast off even as it screeched and sought to stay. Still, they continued. She repeated the words. She noticed Jonathan shuddered, just as she felt something; it was the Count’s pain, threading through each of them.

“Let the Holy Cross be my light. Let not the dragon be my guide. Step back Satan. Never tempt me with vain things. What you offer me is evil. You drink the poison yourself." She held the papers to her chest protectively; she knew the danger of those claws, wherever they were.

A brilliant red energy laced with black ripped and crackled, splitting through the growing night. Seward could only trust that they weren’t making things worse with their attempts to destroy him, and that the Count was not going to step physically from the maelstrom. He kept Jonathan near him, lest anything seek to reach and thereby force the man into some manner of collusion.

There came another noise: a cry of denial pierced their ears, louder than before. Stranger colours lit up the graveyard like a kaleidoscope, and made it so bright that lanterns would not be needed if they continued. They all saw what must be the Count’s true face beneath the former civility at the end; they all saw as the mist was torn apart by unseen hands and sent to its rightful destination.

That diabolical energy surged, before it finally winked out of existence. He had pierced the veil between the living and the dead, Mina estimated. He had been taken where the living may never follow. He had been sent to that Outer Darkness, and whatever it contained, which they had been begging for.

Nearby, where the ring sat, a blue flame began to take shape. It leapt and twisted unnaturally in the night’s wind, casting strange shapes across the already morbid scenery. The pungent aroma of garlic reached their noses; it concealed the stench of burning flesh would should have upset them in equal measure.

Mina felt something cold caress her shoulder and kiss her lips. She almost cried out, but knew who it was. _Lucy_. It was not the Count, for he was defeated, and the blue fire was slowly getting smaller. Mina found no further words would come to her, as Van Helsing had spoken the final prayer for her friend. She didn’t know what she _could_ say.

‘Stay’ would be selfish; ‘goodbye’ would be too simple; too final.

Mina turned towards the Weston crypt, which had been the site of so much activity lately. In the mist, near a copse of trees, Mina at last beheld Lucy’s form. There was no pity emanating from those so missed eyes. No, it was never that. There was only hope for them, and freedom for Lucy. It would appear that she was as excited as Mina was bereaved. They found themselves each stretching out a hand toward the other, before Mina was forced to lower her arm.

Voice quivering, ready to fall apart at any moment, Mina began to say something she hoped would give Lucy joy one last time. They had whispered these words beneath the covers in their play, and amused each other with their memorisation. "One shade the more…one ray the less. Had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven tress. Or softly lightens o’er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how…how _dear_ their dwelling-place."

Lucy was grateful; understanding; pleased, as she faded from mortal eyes; Mina had barely managed to utter the last line without falling apart. Lucy was no longer there, and yet she was, Mina knew. She felt her kiss her lips again, and her forehead one last time in parting. At last, only after having seen her one final time, did tears at last begin to fall. She had restrained them in Lucy’s presence.

She barely felt the Professor pry loose her fingers from the papers, so that he might reclaim them. She didn’t care about them anymore. As John gasped, she managed to turn her attention back to him, and not how bright the pyre was beyond him. 

He silently nodded at her unspoken question, seemingly awe-struck. “I saw her, too. I felt her stroke my cheek with the back of her hand! There was almost the warmth of life to her again, rather than the coldness of the crypt. She looked into my eyes; she looked into yours.” He wrapped his arms around Mina’s waist, mindful of their shared grief. 

Their eyes turned to where she had been walking. " _She Walks In Beauty_ …it was Lucy's favourite," Mina explained as she buried her face in John’s chest.

"I know," Seward sadly replied. “I know!” He clung just as tightly as she did, until Mina began to recover. He had used a passage from that poem himself the night he had proposed to Lucy, though he had replaced raven tresses with golden. He should have chosen another line. ‘Thus mellow'd to that tender light, which heaven to gaudy day denies.’ It was really quite fitting as a goodbye.

Mina turned eventually and gazed up at his face. Hers was blotchy from tears; she was about to inform him that they shouldn’t continue this way; not with Jonathan watching. It was innocent, though; it was a comfort. She buried her face in John’s proffered shoulder again. They held each other in silence. There was relief beneath the pain, for Lucy could no longer suffer.

Jonathan watched, mindful of their mourning. He shared their grief, despite having known Lucy best in death. He didn’t know how to console Mina or John, and so would watch over them. There was no jealousy from him, if they needed each other. There couldn’t be, for he understood their intentions. He looked away, and spotted Lucy again, closer to them than to the tree line. He nodded to her once, uncertain of what else to do.

Did she have a message to impart? No, he guessed as she pointedly looked from him and then, with sadder eyes, to Mina and John. Her eyes were fond when they returned to him. She just desired that someone from this entire affair see her as she was as she departed this world. And she desired it to be someone that would not raise a fuss.

He didn’t need to offer parting words to the spirit. He only felt thankful she had tried to reach him prior to Seward’s arrival at the crypt. He may have lost his soul had she not put a cold hand to his heart and made it beat again. Or, at least, being able to crash through that barrier made it seem that way.

She had given him half a chance to be pulled back into the light. Her appearance rippled, as though a stone were thrown into a pond. It faded into what seemed to be to him a million tiny stars; her profile was the last to fade away. He would speak with Mina of the sight later. She would like to know how it appeared as her friend moved into the hereafter. Lucy was happy; she was free.

His eyes soon turned back to where the blue flame twisted and crackled like a living thing, and he felt a disappointment. Jonathan pointed. “Why did nothing happen to it once the smoke cleared, Professor? Is it invulnerable?” As the others turned to look, the ring became wreathed in a red flame, which surged upwards. Jonathan gasped, and stepped back further. It was like something had detained it from completing its task until he had spoken, and shattered the façade of tranquility.

Even prior to the greatest flare, Mina felt a heat burning inside her. It didn’t hurt. She knew in a way that she could never possibly hope to explain that the last of the Count’s power was stripped from her soul. It was the last link in a chain; while the water had dealt with the rest, this ceremony had freed them.

She grasped Jonathan’s hand tightly in her right hand; she took John’s hand in the left. She glanced at John; he could never fully understand the feeling, she knew. He would only believe her to be afraid of the suddenness. She glanced to Jonathan and surmised from his startled and penetrating look that he _could_ feel it, too. A raised brow turned her way confirmed it, before their attention returned to the phenomenon. They had felt something before, when the Count died. This let them know his will was dispelled.

Even as the flames smouldered and died, their newfound freedom rang true.

Mina left John’s embrace reluctantly; she reached out to touch it, wondering if the signet’s seeming solidity was merely an illusion. Would it disappear? Would it be pulled away and into the realm of the dead? Hadn’t it burned? Was this not a mirage? Without the Count’s will, what further magic could there be? There was only one way to find out.

“Mina,” Seward whispered. When she calmly turned back to him, he couldn’t chastise her. He wondered about the lack of results in that regard, too. He would warn her, just on the off chance something could rise up and bite her. “Be careful.”

"She is being so, John," Jonathan assured him, equally quietly.

“I will be,” Mina whispered in return, at the same time, before they shared a gentle expression. Jonathan understood her purpose. She moved to pick it up; as she held it, it was oddly not hot to the touch. It began to crumble beneath her fingers. She couldn’t help her triumphant smile that painted itself across her face when she turned back to the other men. They were just as pleased.

There was a chill in the air, but it was only natural; soon, it would be the change of seasons, as winter plunged the land into hibernation until the springtime. It was not a metaphysical terror that would come for their hearts and minds. Mina shielded the blackened ash in her palm, so that the natural breeze would not spread it far and wide before she was ready to let go.

While it was seemingly finished, Mina felt that one last thing was required. She cupped it in her hands, and some of it fell between her fingers. She protected it from being lost in the wind. “Jonathan,” she lightly called. “Will you join me in scattering the remains? We’ll consider it the last of him and his curse.”

Jonathan stepped closer as he intuited her meaning; he cupped his hands, so nothing would blow away. Van Helsing and John would not intrude upon them; they merely watched as one evil door was locked and bolted and not left ajar. He received a larger portion of the ash than Mina, with her unspoken permission. He was out of words. She knew his mind; they all did, and no more formalities were required. There would be no further platitudes.

Jonathan threw the ash into the air, and away from him with more anger than he knew was inside him. It provided his inspiration; so, too, did the words of that exorcism. “Crawl back into the mud, and find your first grave; back into Hell with you, Count Dracula, corrupter of the innocent,” he quietly pronounced as it fell back to earth. He felt he might snarl the last words, but stopped. He held back. He shouldn’t, for it would remind him of what had been destroyed.

Mina blew her portion gently into the nighttime breeze; the wind scattered some across the graveyard, and the rest she could not hope to fathom its destination. The first dispersal was done in anger, and another in serenity. It felt right, now that his reign was over.

With that action completed, she stepped back to watch; they waited as the fire did its work back around the dais. Jonathan was on one side of her, holding her hand; John on the other. Seward wrapped an arm around Mina, to protect her from the growing chill; Van Helsing gathered his tools.

It was getting quite dark out, for the hour was growing late; they had the foresight to hang a lantern upon their entrance. Mina and Seward required some time to contemplate the multiple losses of Lucy. In light of that, Jonathan perceived the need for privacy. Mina squeezed Jonathan’s hand in thanks before he made himself scarce. They would not be bothered, should they need to speak of private matters.

There was really no need to speak, though. A companionable silence was just as good as rattling off her every comment. They pondered Lucy and her fate; her love; her cherished spirit in their own ways, and in their own fashion. Seward glanced to the gate, where Van Helsing was now speaking with Jonathan.

Mina followed his gaze; their brief respite had been desperately needed. She had come to the conclusion they might light a candle in remembrance of those they knew about whom had perished for the Count’s foul hunger. “Do you know what they’re whispering about so animatedly?” Mina asked as they began to walk.

Seward nodded as she laid a hand on his arm. He didn't have to guess, based on what he and Jonathan had spoken of earlier. “I told the Professor about a worry Jonathan had, and the potential solution; I suppose he is extending the offer to mesmerise Jonathan one last time,” Seward admitted. “You are welcome to join us when we do.” He wouldn’t dream of leaving her out of any decisions. It was her choice to make.

Mina pondered such a situation. “Thank you, John; I shouldn’t like to be left out of any meetings at this juncture. We’ll speak,” she responded with honesty. She looped her arm through his free one when it was offered, so that he may escort her back.

“In any case, it involved the _Demeter_ , and something that either Jonathan or the Count did, which was forced to be cloudy in his recollections. Even the servant was not privy to these facts,” Seward confided as they walked. “We need to get to the heart of it all. Jonathan needs the truth.” He could see her concern; her curiosity, beneath her weariness; above all, he could see the love that kept Jonathan and Mina going through these trials.

“I will be there when he learns it,” Mina assured him. Whatever it was, no matter how scandalous it could become, she would be there. She would learn all she could at the session, and not turn away. It was best to be prepared for any revelations.

Mina noted they were being watched, as she caught a pointed look from first Jonathan, and then Van Helsing. Then, a blatant gesture was directed their way; she quickly and silently indicated to them that she would be coming with them presently; at last, it appeared that Jonathan relaxed with a grateful smile. She knew he must have accepted the invitation graciously when he turned back to speak with the Professor.

“He didn’t want anyone absent from this affair; he didn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t know my exact intent from a gesture, but we can speak at length shortly,” Mina explained to Seward. She knew Jonathan. Seward was seemingly pleased that she had read the man so easily and so well.

They would find out the truth together.


	10. Epilogue

It was almost over now; everyone had returned to the library to regroup and debate the next step they would take.

Or that had been the intent, until further talk of what they had witnessed took over the conversation. The need for rest had almost prevailed as their voices trailed into silence. Now, they had each retreated to their particular areas, and sunk into quiet contemplation. Seward took in each individual.

The Professor was hurriedly compiling the facts onto a sheet of paper, so that he might mail it to a friend. Whoever this Father Arminius was, he had apparently loaned his unique collection so that it might be of some assistance. They were in his debt.

Seward glanced over to Mina, who smiled softly in the direction of Jonathan. She was beginning the process of quietly removing her gloves; Seward made a mental note to see to it that her hat was replaced before the week was out.

He followed Mina’s gaze; Jonathan’s eyes were closed in the beginnings of sleep. That was the man’s true reward in this case. Mina began a motion as though to imply that he should not disturbed, before she paused. She recalled their conversation, and knew it must be done. They knew their intentions, otherwise they would have not lingered; they would have scattered to the four winds, in effect, and returned to their rooms until the morrow.

“He’s peaceful,” Mina warned with a sigh. Seward moved to jostle him awake, though little effort was required.

“He’s not entirely,” Jonathan wryly murmured as he stretched. “My mind is racing far too much to stay down.” He leaned forward. “Weary, yet on edge.” It was brought about from being freed; having an exorcism performed upon him; staying alert for any threats.

“You may remain so until your mind fully settles,” Seward suspected. “Until you at last fully grasp that he will not arrive in a wave of mist and pluck you from your bed.” He watched him quietly, as he acknowledged he knew that consciously. “You need answers,” he reminded him.

Jonathan disliked the idea of no easy correction for his thoughts. It couldn’t be helped. He moved so that he was not slouching and met Seward’s eyes. “Oh, of course. Yes. My apologies. The Professor was so anxious to put pen to paper, that I felt I must resist insisting further.”

There was a reluctance to disturb the man, even if he had shown great interest in the very idea. Van Helsing’s head turned their way; despite the softness of their conference, he had heard enough. He watched them knowingly, as he put his fountain pen down. “One last line to my friend, Jonathan. Two more minutes, and then we will get you your long overdue answers.” Jonathan inclined his head, respectful of his duty.

“I spoke with the Professor after you did,” Seward noted. He saw Jonathan’s raised brow. Honestly, whatever Jonathan had implied alone had brooked the Professor’s interest to the point that he was more than eager to begin. There was just the letter to write, of course, before anything was forgotten.

“I explained the chance of planted or altered memories, but not the particulars of their contents. I wouldn’t betray your confidence,” he assured him.

“I alluded to the falsehood in particular,” Jonathan explained. He longingly looked to Mina, and perceived she was told the bare minimum; she remained where she was seated, though inclined her head as though to say this was true. She had agreed to come, but she didn’t know what was in store. He must grant her that soon enough.

Seward saw his resolve as easily as he saw hers. “What she knows will be on your terms.”

Still in the chair, Jonathan rose up on his knees and peered over the back to the Professor. He noted the man was organising papers, and shoving them in his satchel. He suddenly wondered if the man had slept at all through this saga. “You are not too tired, I trust, Professor? While it would be worse if I were left waiting to think over particular matters, I would not have you do so if it courted disaster.”

The last two bouts of mesmerism had not gone well. Although, Jonathan believed the servant would have begged to differ. The Count had spoken through him, when it was almost a success; when it was not so much, and he sensed a bite he had leapt for Mina’s neck to declare his jealousy. In his present state of mind, Jonathan felt only nervousness at the possibilities, and concern for the elder gentleman.

“That was my belief as well, Jonathan,” Van Helsing nodded. “I am well rested compared to you.”

“I could leave if you so chose. I won’t be offended,” Mina told him. She could not fault him if he believed her presence was not required. She had heard scant details from John, and thought she understood the fear that engulfed him. She still desired to stand at his side and know what was done to him. He knew of this, for she had implied she would do so. She just wanted to leave him an escape clause, if he had second thoughts.

Jonathan shook his head, even as he moved from the chair. “If you desire it as much as I do, then you must know.” He looked down, struggling to explain his way of thinking. He took her hands, so familiar to him. “I feel that you do. I trust you still, just as much as when you could have altered my will. You survived him. You bested him alone. You didn’t want him in the end. And you _didn’t_ become as the Count was, or as the servant was. You didn’t press yourself upon me in your darkest hour.” His awe was evident.

He shot her a look that she could easily read. He chided himself; he understood the servant’s past behaviours committed through him as no other could or ever would. “If I retreat into particular mannerisms under the mesmerism, you have my future apologies for my rudeness here and now, Mina.”

“No apologies,” she begged, taking his hand. “They won’t be needed, for this is out of your control.”

“Of course,” Jonathan mused. He knew her choice already; he chose to lay everything out on the table, so to speak. “You’ll know the secrets that I don’t fully comprehend. It could be that vile words are uttered. There is a chance of someone’s death…at my hand. I wanted you warned of that. It is your choice to stay or leave. I trust I know your answer.”

His smile became brilliant as Mina pointedly turned and took her seat again. “I choose to stay,” Mina assured him. “You know my mind, do you not?” She had said so already. If it were so important a matter as murder, she would not leave him. She would accept his secrets and know them as he learned them.

“Of course,” Jonathan proudly replied. “Of course I do. Just as you know mine, whenever I am myself. You would not have known it that night, for I was not myself.”

“Trust that I am not frightened; trust that I have known you when another looked out of your eyes,” Mina implored. “When another nature desired to wrap itself around me, you did not leave me to suffer. You tried to reach me.”

He crouched beside her, as though he sought to bend her ear again. Instead, he kissed her impulsively, deeply, despite the fact they were in the company of others. Still, they were among friends. Just as John had done before, he now looked away to give them privacy, and pretended to dust a spot the housekeeper had missed. Van Helsing had done the same, fiddling with his watch fob, and finding fascinating designs on the ceiling.

There had been reluctance lacing through his mind, as well as fear. Come what may, though, the bloodstained shadows knew his sin. He himself did not. Whatever he had been induced to forget, it lay upon his soul. He would know what he had done. He would know who or what he should mourn. He would finally know what actions he had taken, and be able to properly heal.

While he knew that he himself would be labeled innocent in the eyes of his wife and friends, he would learn if the servant was culpable. The Count was dead; further lies would not drip from his mouth.

Mesmerism had brought him here; mesmerism would save him. It would disperse the shadows he had clung to when he was not himself; it would shine a light on the truth. He was resilient to have managed to resurface with sanity relatively intact after all was said and done. He would not hide his head another day; he would not back away and protest that he was too weary.

This very night, he could be put into a trance for one final time. Nay, he would be. Let the words unfurl, and bring him peace. With a sigh, he forced his tense shoulders to relax; he focused on that kiss to aid himself. He focused on how long he and Mina had been without each other. He would not dwell on the unknown.

“I trust I am ready, Professor,” Jonathan quietly declared once he had gathered himself; he shared another smile with Mina. By her eyes, he perceived that she was wishing him the strength to endure.

Jonathan wondered if he was supposed to go to Van Helsing, or just wait. Before he could ask, the other man had moved to a seat across from the one he had claimed earlier, and moved the chair closer. Jonathan returned to it; he wasn’t sure how to sit, so he just did what they had previously done in the cell. He leaned forward with his hands primly folded in his lap and waited.

The lights were dimmed, and Jonathan watched the spinning of the Professor’s watch fob. He wondered if he would be a more difficult study, in light of his freedom. He wondered if he would even fall into the proper state, without the Count’s trail into his mind making it quite so easy. His eyes slowly closed as the trance began to settle in, despite his expectations. Everything felt peaceful and calm.

Van Helsing was mildly disturbed by just how quickly the man was put under, and knew it was the result of all that had been done by the Count. What should take a minute or so always took thirty seconds or less for Jonathan. However, with the Count slain, perhaps it was for the best.

“Do you recall the last time we sat like this, Jonathan?” His words prompted a slow nod. “Good,” Van Helsing praised. “We should not have such intrusions again, with his defeat. Your mind is your own …but we desire to go backwards into a time when it was not. We have questions about a particular moment on the _Demeter_. You may answer mine, as well as any put to you by Mina and John. Do you understand?” The man slowly nodded again. Gradually, they had him in the proper location in his mind.

“So much fog,” Jonathan smiled vaguely, once he was guided to the right hour. He could even feel the rocking of the ship beneath his feet. “He made it so nobody could see the way before them. I think I’m too close to the railing, but I cannot swear to that.”

“I should suppose that he did, and that you cannot even see with the brightest of torches,” Van Helsing mused. “But you did not fall overboard at this place and time, and so you will keep your footing. In your memories, you believe that a man died for your actions. Tell us of that.”

Jonathan began to speak without emotion; his eyes were fixed on a location behind them, and never moved from there. “He…offered me food. I used it to lure my quarry. The sun sank beneath the horizon, and I felt the urge to protect. I knew he would tell, because he didn’t promise not to, and he was the lookout. The wind was high, and tossed the ship. Some of the contents of boxes came loose, and I saw a hammer and nails. I saw a harpoon roll over to bump my foot, next to my big toe. So I plunged a harpoon through his chest and his belly, so that my Master would be safe.”

To Van Helsing’s puzzlement, Jonathan went so far as to describe everything down to their clothing, and exactly where the blood had splashed. He told of the amount that had spilled, and of a strangely shaped knot of wood in the corner. He described exactly where each item was stored in the hold, and how long it took to unload. The clarity and detail was suspicious, as was the knowledge of events he was not present for. It was almost laughable.

Even Mina paused in her concern to look closely at Jonathan. She shook her head at Van Helsing, for something wasn’t right to the declarations. She put aside her own horror as Jonathan had detailed the murder, just because of the great detail. How would a man know precisely how much blood was left within someone’s body?

“Where did all the blood go?” Van Helsing calmly asked. He hoped to lead the man to the correct explanation, even in his present state.

“I don’t understand,” Jonathan softly said a long pause. His voice was distant.

“You would have slid in it; you would have slipped from it; you surely would have fallen,” Van Helsing rationally explained, as calmly as possible for the mesmerised man. “We would have seen the stain of it upon your clothing even if it was washed away from the deck by the sea as it was cast upon the shore. I presume John has pointed this out.” He paused, and sighed. “Think harder, Jonathan. Think back to that time. Think back to all that Dracula said and did. It was night. _Where_ was he?”

“It was almost daylight, and—and so he was in his coffin,” Jonathan stammered quietly, as he began to look hunted. “That fact is certain. He needed help as sunlight encroached upon the world. He required my aid.”

“The sun just went down,” Seward interjected just as calmly as Van Helsing had before. He, too, could find the hole within the story. “You said it was why you fretted. And it’s why you wanted to protect, even though your master was safe and at his full power.” Evidently, the Count hoped to dissuade questioning by placing the horror at the forefront. He assumed the Count expected his servant to escape prior to further questioning. The lie fell apart under careful scrutiny.

Jonathan only shook his head wearily, as though he couldn’t understand what was wrong. He squeezed his eyes tight, as though to concentrate harder for them.

Seward pressed on, confident that it wouldn’t cause more harm than good. Jonathan wasn’t too fragile to handle that. “Did the Count fabricate this memory, Jonathan? It is…oddly detailed and specific for one that should be warped by hunger, pain, madness, and illness. Such as yours was, along with the secondary identity at war with your own. The servant would have bragged. Did I not say that?”

“Blood is life,” Jonathan began whispering to himself. His eyes opened, without a hint of deliberate evasion in them. The pressure had triggered something deep within his mind. “He said to always listen. He said…he said it would remain, should I falter.” Jonathan was distressed and wringing his hands without realising. His eyes were blanker than usual, even within the trance. “Blood is life.”

“You can break through that suggestion, Jonathan,” Van Helsing assured him. He would be delicate as he compensated for this repetitive mood. They were in treacherous waters again. “He cannot punish you. His power ends.” He knew this would be impossible if the Count still lived. He would swoop in and control Jonathan into denying all thoughts that contradicted what had been planted. And, perhaps, even shatter his psyche entirely.

“When they call, I must come. I obey his instructions above all others. Blood is life,” Jonathan continued muttering after he tensed. He repeated the sentences twice more. He looked at the brink of tears; he seemed lost; it was as though he was continuing to react to something they couldn’t possibly hear themselves.

“The Count throws forth several old fashioned defenses, much as he once would have to protect his castle. These were placed here as a booby trap, though he himself is no longer present to activate such things,” Van Helsing posited. “Hypnotic phrases were inserted much as they were in the graveyard, so that Jonathan would be running in an endless loop until his own Master entered the fray and thereby snapped apart the linking chains.” He found the action brilliant, even if the one behind it was a monster.

Without the Count, and without intervention, this could go on for the rest of the night, and well into tomorrow. Or it might last far longer if they were unlucky. It could earn Jonathan a cell for the remainder of his days.

“Can’t you break him loose?” Mina asked in growing dismay. It was a horrid and pitiful sight; she wanted to pull Jonathan close and soothe him, but knew that just wouldn’t work under these circumstances. There wasn’t even an alien mind to pull away from him. She wanted Jonathan to come back to her side, and not be destroyed. After so much pain and effort for him to become himself again, she didn’t want to lose him.

“I am not a miracle worker, Mina, but I have a way that might gain ground,” Van Helsing sighed. His determination only grew the more he was challenged. He twirled his antique watch fob in a circle until it had begun to regain Jonathan’s attention. Ever so slowly, the words died away as Jonathan lost himself to the mesmerism. “Forget that path. Look into the prism,” he prompted until he began to gain ground. There was a brief staccato burst of attempted murmuring as the orchestrated words returned, before they died away entirely.

“Clear the lies and repetition from your mind,” Van Helsing continued. “Look at this; look into the fob watch. See how the light prisms through the glass on this corner. Find the centre; find the purest form of light. Put out of your mind anyone else, living or dead. Do you understand _my_ words, Jonathan? Do you know that he is not everlasting?”

“Yes,” Jonathan murmured. He looked and sounded as though he was awakening from a long slumber, as he was pulled from the grip of those ominous words.

“Look into the prism,” Van Helsing repeated hypnotically. “Look into the colours; stare into the unending depths of it.” He was assured of the fact that Jonathan would not look away, and that all was as it should be. He almost chuckled when he saw John looking away. Yes, he had always been an easy guinea pig when he first began to practice this art.

The watch fob twirled first in one direction, and then the other. “Focus only on my voice. Your name is Jonathan Harker; you do not serve another anymore. He is dead, though his spirit sought to claim you. That, too, was snuffed out. You do not desire to be in bondage throughout eternity, do you? What did you feel beneath those words you spouted? Or, shall I instead ask what you were made to feel on the night blood was spilled?”

“Everything felt cold apart from his embrace,” Jonathan mumbled. He had successfully withdrawn from the command, and returned to the memories. They skipped to the moment he had been guided towards. "There were only disconnected sensations as the Count spoke through me on the ship, for I was displaced. His presence was beauty, and all the remaining time was just darkness and noise.”

His lashes fluttered in confusion, and then his breathing steadied further. “Until…the Count’s death; until the servant was cast out and colour returned to the world. Reason shows another path. I feel there are truths; I understand there are lies.”

“Did the man die in truth?” Seward questioned. It was good that Jonathan could take a harder look at it now, from a fresh perspective. He just hoped this didn’t lead to further issues. “And you were given food? We know you can tell us. The Count is beyond you, and cannot hurt you ever again.”

“Yes,” Jonathan moaned. It sounded like the noise was torn forth from his soul, and was pained. It was difficult to be certain at first, as he could see two ways stretching out. One was more solid. “The Master wanted me to keep the new thought and embrace it as reality.” He was sorting through memories that were not, technically, his own. It was easy to get lost in the shuffle, and speak the wrong title.

“Why?” Seward prompted. He felt sorry for the poor man calling Dracula ‘Master’ again, even if it was just past thoughts. He detected even Jonathan was seeking to shove that title away yet again, and so returned to their conundrum. What would be the point of clutching a false memory as though it was one’s own, aside from punishing the poor man? “Was it because _you_ didn’t kill him? What did the two of you do? Tell us what you see.”

“The Count killed him. He drained him, and then he snapped his neck; together, we threw him overboard. He sensed my feelings. He gave me more of his blood,” Jonathan softly recounted. His face peered first one way, and then the other, as though he was choosing a particular fork in the road to follow to the truth. “That is in the gap. I can see dim shrouded figures as though they are enacting a play, but it is us. That man was hidden from my mind, and the Count put another thought in its place.”

Van Helsing glanced at Seward. He had another question. Without an answer, they would not know if something could lead to ruination of the solicitor. “And did your master ever place instructions within you any other times? What were these instructions?” They knew of the revelations of the crypt.

“Every time; yes,” Jonathan replied softly in a tone that was a mix of shame and desperation. “For how to behave should we be parted, until he found me once more, for he always would…he could always see through my eyes, after all, so he must know; for what to say; for what to remember. He bid the servant to let him enter as he wished; to be his spy. To love his touch, and the ever obedient servant would retain dominion over all that I was.”

“And the idea of being a murderer?” Seward asked. He was almost upset on Jonathan’s behalf. It was confusing, and muddled, but the doctor did understand that all of this was dumped onto the servant’s head, with Jonathan himself seeking to wade through it here. They were not in danger.

“The instructions are there beneath it all. So that I would always do as he commanded by night…when the time must come to—to destroy interlopers that meddled in his affairs,” Jonathan stammered. He shook his head as though he didn’t want to say more, but the mesmerism pulled it out of him and laid it bare. “So I would not hesitate to strike them down. If I thought I already had killed once, I would not hesitate.”

Van Helsing leaned back in his chair, momentarily uncertain if there was anything else that must be discussed while he had this man in his grasp. “Aside from what we thwarted, are there any other safeguards in place within your mind to resurrect the Count that you were not aware of until tonight?” Could asking about them be yet another trigger? He tensed as he awaited the response.

”No,” Jonathan replied honestly. His voice was soft, and tired, even in the trance. It was exhausting to search for hidden items under every innocent thought and memory. It made him want to put down his head and fall asleep, but he would not unless the suggestion was given by the man who presently had control over his mind. “Everything rose to the surface that he intended. I was to be his sacrifice, or the one who found one. There would be the ashes. If such were impossible to gather, there was the ring. The dagger was placed at a time that I was not privy, given my location.” 

Then, he paused, as ideas struggled to form; a memory stirred, though it was hazy. Faintly, he gave a shudder. When he spoke again, it was not prompted by a question. “It was always so easy for him to climb inside me; for him to alter my perception.”

Seward moved to sit on the table beside Jonathan’s seat, in case there was further panic. “He is not inside you. He was defeated twice; once in body, and once in spirit. His twisted creature was cast out in the cell. You were there for all of these moments. Just keep hold of that.” When Jonathan still looked blankly worried under the trance, he added, “What is your other fear? Did something else occur? You _can_ speak freely.”

Jonathan nodded uncomfortably. “I fear the blonde who was among them. Marishka crept inside my head once…until the Master punished her. She made me lock the other ladies in their coffins, when I was unable to stake them. We left for Whitby soon after. Can she get back inside me, too? Can she do what he did?" It was a buried fear that was at last given voice in this vulnerable trance. It had been forgotten, but his memories were being dredged so thoroughly tonight that it now bobbed to the surface.

Van Helsing raised a brow. Jonathan had asked of them before, but only if he must hunt them. “You did not consume this Marishka’s blood, did you, Jonathan? Or that of the other two?” Jonathan slowly shook his head. “You are safe so far away.”

Seward was horrified by this new knowledge. So the Count wasn’t the only vampire to use the man, even in a milder fashion. Jonathan’s soul had been their playground.

Mina reached over to squeeze John’s hand. Without even thinking about it, in reply he took hers and linked their fingers. Seward wasn’t the least bit bothered by the touch or their closeness, she perceived. It wasn’t scandalous, for they were merely close following what had been done to Lucy, and how they had freed her. They had been friends prior, but had grown steadily closer for their shared calamity. With the opening of Jonathan’s mental wounds, they felt they must hold tight to one other. He could hold onto them when he was conscious of his surroundings.

“Before we let him go, I have one question more,” Seward carefully began. Should he file it under morbid curiosity? No, for it was only a desire to know everything about the case. As Jonathan’s physician and as his friend, he would like to be able to help him however he could. “Should it cause him undue strife, we will cease.”

When Van Helsing agreed, Seward continued. “What did he say when he spoke through you on the _Demeter_? If you can speak of it, how did the process go at that moment?” He and the Professor had been present when such had occurred on the night of Lucy’s final attack. He wondered if the threats were the same.

“I allowed him entrance; inside my mind, I would be told to remain still and quiet as a mouse, for he was the wiser of us and knew the proper ways to behave in my stead,” Jonathan softly explained. He swallowed nervously, and focused as he struggled to recall.

Van Helsing snorted in disgust at the monster’s gall. It didn’t seem to bother Jonathan. He focused on the man’s eyes when he began to speak the words, but found only someone disturbed by the very idea of quoting him. There was no revelling here; there was sorrow. Jonathan stretched out his hand, as though to hold someone securely by the throat.

Then, Jonathan began to speak echoes of the past. His voice remained his own. “I have triumphed, and I will triumph again. My rule is everlasting. The man before you is, in effect, my squire; my hunter; my servant. He will not save you; he cannot, for he belongs to me. I steer him as you do your vessel. I will never allow him to displease me, and so you cannot sway him with simple words.” 

Jonathan paused, and then the words grew harder in remembered sternness; his eyes remained sad for speaking them. Those present suspected the tone had been far harsher. “You have seen his movements; soon, you will see me in the flesh. You will not live to speak of us to your captain.” Slowly, he lowered his arm; his hands rubbed themselves nervously from the relaying of the words, and then fell still. 

Mina knew Jonathan. There was a particular element woven through this sordid affair that would forever haunt him if he didn’t have any answers. It wasn’t just the fact that he himself had not killed this poor soul. As Jonathan was in no fit state to think of such matters being in a trance, Mina would do so.

Had there been introductions made, while Jonathan was possessed? Not on the Count’s part, of course. If he could recall the Count’s phrasings, and body language under mesmerism, could he have tucked that away as well? Mina held up her hand, before Van Helsing could continue with any further persuasive talk.

Van Helsing gestured, to imply that while he could not verbally answer, busy as he was with directing the fob and keeping Jonathan docile, she had the floor.

“Jonathan, a further question.” She waited until his placid face turned her way. “What was the dead man’s name? Who heard the answer? Was it the servant; the Count; or was it lost in some in between place where neither of you resided?” Mina softly inquired. She caught John’s appreciative expression, for that simple and _human_ question was so obvious that it had slipped his mind, too. It was also empathetic.

“The Count had trickled in; he was in that position of dominance.” Jonathan appeared to be lost as to the answer to the first question, and closed his eyes. Evidently, he would not give up so easily, for his eyes darted back and forth beneath the lids. Just as Mina was planning to urge him to give up if he was unable to answer, she paused. He was opening his mouth to say more.

“It is a tricky aspect, from an inhuman mind, with reflections still there, but…I can see it.” He had a tiny smile on his lips; there was a hint of victory in his bearing, even in this sorrowful time, as a single word emerged. “Olgaren.” It was said with finality, for that was all he knew.

“Thank you. That will be all from me,” Mina assured him with the deepest of gratitude. She jotted it on a nearby slip of paper, hoping that she spelled it correctly. If he had that single word, then it may make it easier if he were to study the ship’s manifest in the future. She suspected he might want to know the men aboard.

There was nothing left for Jonathan to tell. There was no need to speak of anything else, for their answers were drawn out of him. He merely opened his eyes, and focused once more on the watch fob that Van Helsing twirled. Quietly, he leaned back in the chair.

“That will be more than enough of studying that part of your history,” Van Helsing carefully told to the man. "Return to a quiet state; calm yourself further as you turn away. You have no further need to dwell on the _Demeter_." Jonathan breathed calmly. “Close your eyes. I want you to look for his instructions.”

Jonathan frowned, and finally shook his head. “I see them,” he announced. He awaited further suggestions before he would move in any direction.

Van Helsing chose his words carefully, lest he cause further problems down the line. “See them for what they are; they are as inconsequential as cobwebs in an empty room…but that room also must house a good life again. You are free. They do not bind you any longer. What do we do with spider webs if we are not phobic?” He planned to tell him to rip those away as he came across them.

Jonathan was taking initiative; instead of asking further questions, with a tiny smile, with closed eyes, he made a sweeping motion in a wide arc with his left arm. 

“Very good, Jonathan,” Seward praised. He saw Mina had reached out and squeezed Jonathan’s hand for support, once she was not in danger of being accidentally swept aside. Indeed, Jonathan switched to his right hand to brush something else away. This gesture was not so dramatic, though Seward had to find another place to sit lest he soon find himself falling to the floor.

“I think I brushed it all away,” Jonathan happily informed them. He slowly rose to his feet; as he turned anticlockwise, he gazed around the room and began to move in the direction of the closed curtains. He tugged them once, as he sought something that was not truly there. Mina quietly approached and took his hands; she gently drew him back to the chair before anyone else could when she saw he was remaining still, aside from picking at something invisible. “I don’t see a spider attached in this heap of webs.”

“The spider within is gone, yes, and cannot continue his work,” Van Helsing assured him once he returned to his seat. “Jonathan, when you awaken, you will remember all that you have revealed. You will know which memory is truth, and which is deception, among the shreds of webbing. You will be able to view the flickering images of your own accord. You will be relaxed until then. Breathe in; breathe out.” He watched serenity grow in Jonathan’s eyes.

Van Helsing moved to his feet, and put his watch fob and its accoutrements down on the desk; he strode to the curtains, and opened them so that the light from the busy street might come in; he turned the gas lights up until the light was suitable. Then, he snapped his fingers. Jonathan’s attention lazily drifted around the room, before he grew more cognisant of his surroundings.

Seward watched as the Professor brought Jonathan out of his trance before he made to approach the younger of the two men. Seeing it was required, he quickly poured a glass of sherry. He shared a look with Mina, even as he quietly pressed the glass into Jonathan’s shaking hands. Seward didn’t let go until he was assured the contents would not be meeting the floor in a shower of glass. “You deserve it,” he informed Jonathan. “More than that, I think you need it.”

“Thank you, John,” Jonathan murmured. He was a bit disconcerted in his mannerisms, until he acclimated to everything going on his head. He was recovering as his mind filed away the vivid truth, and pushed away the gruesome lies. He could tell the difference, and knew those holes were properly filled. 

He looked down at the drink in his hand. He didn’t particularly care for sherry; he knew it was that, once he sniffed it. However, if the doctor was being this generous, he wasn’t one to argue about trifling matters. Plus, he had an aversion to cognac, after what the Count had done. This was better than being given that.

In any case, Jonathan believed he was correct. It was required at a time like this. He sipped it once or twice, until his nerves were steadier. He pondered the room he had imagined. The webs he had torn asunder within that vacant room had been knitted together to form the shape of the Count. And yet, he had known it to be empty and not hesitated to tear it away.

Those older orders had become hollow. The amalgam of web bound into a body was just a shell that his confusion had left to stand and rot. There was nothing to them, despite the shimmer of the web; the glimmer of the past. They could not trap him, for the tapestry of webs had been unravelled.

They could not touch him, and so that silken thread was brushed aside with ease. He could contemplate the truth, much as Van Helsing had urged. The hunter, that savage servant, was dead and removed; he had made no appearance even as a phantasm in that derelict space.

“I didn’t kill anyone; no, _he_ didn’t kill anyone,” Jonathan finally proclaimed, as his voice broke. He expected to sound emotional; he couldn’t hide it, or the shuddering of his body. He covered his face with one hand. Mina went to his side, and embraced him once he was ready for her touch. He looked up at her, and then to each of the men. “He was but the lure. It was all the Count, for the servant only manhandled the body,” he whispered. He felt relief swelling up within him. He had doubted his actions, and to an extent his humanity, for so long.

“That’s right,” Seward acknowledged, knowing the man was seeking to prevent going into shock. Whatever sort of lure he had been, it had been at the behest of a greater and far more malevolent entity that could not be denied. “That fantastical story he made you believe was just that: a _story_. It was something he conjured from thin air as a way to control you, even if he perished…or if someone freed you.” 

He poured himself a glass of brandy, and passed another to Mina, before coming to sit on the arm of Jonathan’s chair. Mina only dared to leave Jonathan’s side just so long as it took to move her chair closer. Van Helsing shook his head, for he was not interested in alcohol.

“Perhaps it even gave him a greater mode of entrance if you doubted your goodness from within your cage,” Seward deduced. Could the Professor’s books confirm such? “If the servant didn’t seek to preserve the sanctity of life and killed of his own volition, the Count would win no matter where you were.”

It was dreadful to think in that manner. It was worse still that Seward had welcomed the Count into his home. Even in death, he had refused to vacate the premises, and so they had used force to evict him. It sounded so simple when put into the terms of an unwelcome and unwanted houseguest that had overstayed his welcome, and not a ghost or vampire.

Jonathan looked as though he would argue against the very idea. “I wouldn’t have killed any of you!” Then, he recalled his activities when the servant held sway. “Hurt, yes, for that was his nature even without the Count's encouragements, but I can't believe I'd be able to kill even then.” He inclined his head, accepting particular actions. “The servant made the effort when unleashed; I know this, John. Would I have done such as myself?”

He paused, contemplating his next words. “No. Even when I thought there was to be a black mass with Mina as the centrepiece, I don’t believe I had it in me to kill either of you gentlemen.” Then, he smirked with good humour. “While I wished to land a solid punch on you, Van Helsing, and lay you flat, I did not seek to kill you.” 

Van Helsing seemed to take the admission with equanimity, as though it was no great surprise. “I have been told that I have that effect on people,” he wryly noted as he turned away.

Seward was amused at the way that had been handled. “Good show,” he informed Jonathan as he chuckled. They had their answers. _Jonathan_ had his answers, and he was genuinely happy for him. “You may have attacked people, and you may have been violent in the asylum whenever it was night, but _not one person died_ beneath _your_ hands, Jonathan. Your will did not drive a weapon into anyone’s body. Remember that!”

“I’ll try to remember that, John…as Mina said earlier, should the nightmares come.” Jonathan promised. Granted, she may have said it when she was not entirely herself, but it still held merit. Quietly, he put his empty glass down on the table, and leaned forward with a little smile. “Do you know? I should like to return to my cell, if you have no further need of my presence. I think I can close my eyes without anxiety for a time.”

Seward nodded once. "I'll find writing implements; or, perhaps, reading material, if you should like to replace anything in there." There was no need to lead him back. There was no need to explain anything to Rowse or Jenkins, for they were informed to give him no trouble. His cell would not be locked for tonight or any other night. “Soon, you should be given one of the guest rooms. I find their beds are more comfortable,” he offered. It was spoken casually, for he desired to see the man's reaction to the suggestion. "They aren't quite so cramped as the cells."

Seward was pleased that Jonathan’s eyes lit up at that thought. Mina’s expression said that she fairly rejoiced at his pleasure. This was especially so at the exuberance of the laugh that was pulled from her husband. He knew how much he hated this confinement. Jonathan left, only to return and thank him properly; he was soon begging Seward’s pardon for forgetting his manners with the accumulation of emotions that he hadn't the proper words for.

Seward watched Jonathan leave again. He felt proud of how far he had come. It wasn't long before Mina made her own excuses to part from his company. It was evident that it was so that they might speak of matters not meant for anyone but her husband's ears.

Van Helsing retired to parts unknown while everyone was busy with far more emotional things. While Seward knew that was just his way, it was still unnerving until he saw the back door of the library was ajar. Seward suspected he was researching further matters somewhere in the asylum that wasn’t that one room he had been confined to earlier, but couldn’t prove it when he couldn’t locate him.

Seward had his own plans, and so withdrew to his private study. Time passed, until it was well past midnight; he was occupied putting away many of the small gifts Lucy had given to him over their courtship. They would be in easy reach; they would not be forgotten; they would be perused from time to time, as he healed, though not obsessed over.

As the sun rose on a new day, Seward was already up. He was just entering Lucy’s crypt, for he had particular matters to deal with in private. He placed flowers on her casket; it no longer housed her body, but a note slipped under his door from the Professor let him know that it was in an urn nearby.

He turned his head, and took notice of the newest urn. Seward had already put another bouquet on the location that had once held the dais; the fire was out, but the singe would remain for a time upon the grass until it regrew. Van Helsing had pulled strings so that almost everything was gone. There were still some bits of wood; a vine of garlic left carelessly behind.

He looked around, feeling it was almost wrong not to sense Lucy's spirit moving within the periphery, or unseen eyes keeping track of him. There should at least be that telltale chill. He moved to the vase with apprehension, and peered into the depths. Yes, that wretched thing was still in there. It had been forgotten by everyone else. Van Helsing had done well in his cleaning, but hadn't thought to take further measures than leave the urn.

Carefully, he withdrew the dagger, and turned it over in his hands as he studied it. Did any black magic lurk within it? He couldn’t say. There wasn't a thrum of power; there wasn't any hint of another force directing where the blade may land. He wrapped it in cloth brought for this very purpose, and placed it in the pocket of his overcoat.

So much had already been said. He had no further words for the deceased. Lucy knew his mind, and his heart, before she left this realm. At last, he pulled himself from there with a final painful look, equal measures longing and regret.

Just as quietly as he had departed, he returned to the asylum, with the item concealed in his coat. Only Rowse, attending to early morning rounds, noted his presence. Nobody else was awake at this hour, and Rowse knew he must not be disturbed until one hour from then, save for an emergency. Those souls who had taken part in the previous night’s ritual would still be sleeping. Well, except for Van Helsing. The man was presumably invigorated by his success.

With a sigh both bemused and exhausted, Seward made his way to his private desk. Nobody else had access to it. He opened the drawer, and placed it within the lowest drawer. Once closed, he turned the key with promptness, and pocketed it. If someone wanted this, they would be required to use brute force to retrieve it. He doubted he needed to go to all this trouble, but one never knew. When the time was right, he would ask Van Helsing if he could learn whether or not it was a threat to them.

Two days later, wrapped in cloth again once it was cleaned of dried gore, it was presented to the Professor. And so it was, they learned the truth. The dagger was just that: a dagger, despite the Professor’s secret hopes. It was not the key to unlocking a greater mystery; it did not open portals to demonic realms; it could not conjure the dead from the void, empty of certain words.

It did not hold a dark, demonic secret within its gleaming blade. The hilt did not decorate itself with ancient runic symbols. With Count Dracula defeated, it had no uses aside from the obvious.

When the others refused to take it off his hands as either a keepsake or gift relating to their treasured victory, Van Helsing only shrugged. He could understand Jonathan’s reaction of feeling ill at ease; Mina’s as well. While his fascination with the metaphysical disturbed the others, he had hoped to pass on such intriguing documentation to John, and enmesh him in the world of the paranormal as his apprentice. He was a quick study, once he grasped a concept, and despite his squeamishness. Alas, it was apparent that he was not quite as much a devotee of the field as he'd hoped.

It was Van Helsing’s opinion that this was their loss, despite their former terror. He placed it in his suitcase, for when he finally went back home. He would keep it as a souvenir; despite his disappointment, it was sure to be a fascinating conversation starter.  
\--

Jonathan would be formally discharged from the asylum within the week, although he would stay on as a guest for a set period of time, or until he was entirely ready to return to the home he shared with Mina. Once there was a suitable moment in which he could unwind, his appetite would return to something resembling normal. It would take far longer for his sleeping habits to do the same, and naps would be seen so frequently as to be customary for the man.

Bureaucracy didn’t account for the supernatural, and they wanted him comfortable until all was suitable. He had already shown enough sanity to everyone around him that it felt as though it was the best thing. The extenuating circumstances that had led him here were departed from this world.

Count Dracula may have brought Jonathan and Mina to their knees with the extent of his machinations, but he had not ruined their souls; those may have been tarnished, but he could not control them forever. Their wills were stronger in the end.

They would survive. They would piece their scattered lives back into a semblance of order, if not normalcy. They would live the rest of their lives; and if they were not free of those last crumbs of dread in their nightmares despite their success, then at least their waking lives were calmer.

Jonathan and Mina were free of the shadow of Dracula’s taint, when it came to life beyond death. They would not rise again. They would not be possessed. Seward would heal from his grief for Lucy; that would come with Mina’s assistance, just as she and Jonathan were counselled. He would know love again.

To commemorate the anniversary of the day Mina found Jonathan in the cell, they renewed their vows in a simple wedding ceremony. They would make a day of woe their own; they would reclaim that which had been sullied by the Count. They would pick a time on which they never should have been stolen from one another. Beside them, they chose to have the same people that knew of his dismal state at that hour.

John became both witness and Jonathan’s best man. Van Helsing gave away the bride in her short walk, upon her request. Without Lucy’s physical presence, Mrs. Weston volunteered to be Mina’s maid of honor; she refused to see a day of bliss become a maudlin affair, when the date fell so close to her own grief. The sun shone down on them as they said their vows; they felt that Lucy's blessing fell on them, though neither could be certain.

The soft whispers of the dead were silenced. The Count was banished, and his curse was extinguished. The truth was out in the open. Jonathan's honour as a gentleman remained intact; the love between the couple was deeper than before, following this test.

The living would not willingly walk through the shadows of the damned; they would not linger in its icy thrall, pallid from the taint of the undead. Mina and Jonathan; John and Abraham; they would dare to live in the light.

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> A massive amount of thanks must go out to SeanDC for beta reading this story. He was Britpicking it at the same time. It took well over a month to finish, but we managed to get through all 100,023 words. If Ao3 says it’s more than that, then they’re counting the coding and scene breaks.
> 
> The "suffered from the night" line that Jonathan has comes straight from the novel. That is one of two or three moments that survived a dozen or so rewrites, and originally would have happened in entirely different circumstances. Long ago, that was going to be the title, until the story went a whole other way.
> 
> Van Helsing’s discussion of astral projection: The silver cord is the one most often seen according to my research.
> 
> The dead toad method of locating vampires and that rhyme Mina recalls are a reference to Captain Kronos, Vampire Hunter (1974).
> 
> Olgaren: He is imported from the novel. He was one of the crew that died on board the Demeter, and receives one mention upon reporting to the Captain that there’s a strange man on board the ship. Petrofsky was another member of the crew there, and receives a passing mention from Jonathan in the story.
> 
> Jonathan’s thought about ripping Glebe down stone by stone is a reference to a line of Van Helsing’s in Dracula (1931).
> 
> “Deep in the darkest night,” and “the embers that glow in the winter” are extremely vague references to a song (called Deep In The Darkest Night) in Frank Wildhorn’s Dracula musical. 
> 
> At some point, Mina thinks to herself “There was none safer in all the world than she from him.” That is a reference to the novel, though there it was in relation to the brides. The line in the novel was: “None safer in all the world from them than I am." 
> 
> The Latin prayer ("Adjuro te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti") was taken from the film. It means, “I charge thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
> 
> The Vade Retro Satana is an actual Medieval Catholic exorcism that I used for this. It was originally recorded in 1415. In the Wikipedia entry for Vade Retro Satana, you’ll find the symbol of the St. Benedict medal that Jonathan identified, as well as the Latin and English aspects of the exorcism. 
> 
> According to Wikipedia, the Scholomance “was a fabled school of black magic in Transylvania, which was run by the Devil.” Van Helsing made a reference to it in the novel. With the film version, it’s likely after all that research he has run across the name in relation to the Count.
> 
> ‘Innocent souls turned carrion birds’ is my reference to The Vampire, by Conrad Aiken. As are ‘the pale stones being splashed with red.’ The more obvious poem reference is She Walks In Beauty, by Lord Byron—Jonathan (or the servant) says a line in the cell, and Mina inadvertently does that same line when she’s seeing Lucy off in the end.
> 
> For those that can catch any references that I’ve forgotten in the midst of all of this, kudos to you. It was so much to sort through.
> 
> For those that may be interested, you can find commentary on the writing of this story [here.](https://calliopes-pen.dreamwidth.org/1794563.html#cutid1)


End file.
